


surely heaven waits

by foolondahill17



Series: carry on 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Curtain Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolondahill17/pseuds/foolondahill17
Summary: It’s four months after Jack killed Amara and Chuck, and all is well. Jack definitely doesn’t feel guilty about what he did while soulless. Sam’s living the ideal apple-pie-white-picket-fence life with Eileen. And Dean’s dealing fantastic with sobriety and not hunting. Plus, he’s sleeping with Cas. Sleeping with him, not *sleeping* with him. Like he said, all is frikken well.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: carry on 'verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680373
Comments: 70
Kudos: 292





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: alcoholism, PTSD, self-harm behaviors, suicidality, past parental abuse and neglect, past sexual trauma (including rape, nonconsensual touching, soliciting, and underage), depression, panic attacks, and other miscellaneous mental health stuff. 
> 
> I wasn’t planning on posting this until April, but this C-19 shit left me feeling more depressed than usual tonight, and I figured we could all use a little distraction. I hope you lovelies are safe and healthy. Be gentle with yourselves. 
> 
> Updated on Mondays.

_Four months ago_

It all ends in Mr. and Mrs. Kline’s house, 8715 Munro Avenue, a nondescript one-story ranch. Ground zero to what authorities ultimately identify as a gas explosion. It takes out four-blocks in every direction. Luckily most people are at work or school, so casualties are limited. 

All Dean really remembers is a lot of light and noise. Jack was there, and so was Cas, clutching Jack’s shoulder. Jack was doing that glowing-shaking-screaming thing he does, Amara was trying to stop him, and Chuck-in-Sam’s body was trying to duck out of the way. 

That’s when Dean started yelling, tried to charge right into it, but Eileen grabbed him by one arm, and Michael grabbed him by the other. 

Somehow Sam – really Sam – met Dean’s eyes from within the mass of blinding light, and the bitch actually had the wherewithal to smile. “It’s okay, Dean,” Sammy said. “It’s gonna be okay.”

_Blaze of glory._

And then there was nothing. 

And the next second Dean’s lying flat on his back in a bunch of yellow grass and dead sunflower stalks. The sky is the kind of milky white that comes from a thin sheen of cloud-cover, too wimpy to decide whether it’s going to clear up or brew a storm in earnest. 

Dean takes a minute to take stock of his body. Legs: check. Chest: rising and falling. Arms: A-Okay. Dick: yup. Still there. Head: heavy, but apparently attached to his neck. 

“Dean?” says Sammy, and Dean just about stops breathing. He sits up so quickly his vision swims, but he doesn’t care. Then he pushes himself to his feet, and his entire body seizes up in protest, but he doesn’t waver, because Sam’s kneeling about twenty-feet away, hip-deep in dry grass, and he looks dazed but unhurt. He looks like Sammy. 

“Sam,” Dean chokes out. Sam doesn’t have a chance to get to his feet before Dean staggers over to him and collapses to his knees in front of his brother. “Sammy.” He pulls Sam into a hug. He doesn’t want to let go. He doesn’t have to ask whether Chuck is really gone; he just knows. This is all Sammy. 

Sam’s arms shake as they wrap around Dean in response. His hands fist against the back of Dean’s shirt, just like he used to when he was a little kid and Dean woke him up from a nightmare. 

“It’s over?” Sam asks. Dean can tell his brother is crying. Dean feels tears well in his throat, but he swallows them down. He doesn’t need that right now, not when Sammy needs him. 

“It’s over,” Dean whispers into his brother’s shoulder. “Really over.” 

“Sam?” it’s Eileen’s voice, worried and confused, and Sam snaps away from Dean’s embrace. He shoves himself to his feet. 

“Eileen!” He yells, and then swears when he realizes that won’t do any good. Eileen is standing several yards away. She turns, one hand holding her hair out of her face. 

Sam’s already running toward her, when she spots him. Dean swears: it’s straight out of a cheesy romance film, running through a damn wheat field into your lover’s arms. Sam and Eileen meet half-ways, crashing into each other. Dean’s fairly certain Sam makes the first move when he plants his lips over Eileen’s mouth, but she certainly responds enthusiastically. 

Something twinges in Dean’s chest. He has to look away. He tells himself he just wants to give his brother a little privacy. He stands to his feet and looks at his shoes, then he takes a look around. 

It’s just a field, like any one of the thousand he and Sam have passed on their road trips across the country. But it makes Dean think uneasily of that field Amara tugged him off to when she first showed up. So, Dean’s relieved when he spots another figure walking toward him. It quickly reveals itself to be Adam. 

Dean takes a few steps forward, not entirely sure how he’s supposed to greet his half-brother. 

Adam’s eyes are red. When he reaches Dean, he says in a strangled voice, “Michael’s gone. I – I told him it was okay.” 

“I – ah – sorry man,” Dean says. He claps Adam on the shoulder, because he’s not sure the man would accept a hug right now. And inside his chest, Dean’s heart is racing. Because Adam losing Michael makes Dean painfully aware of Cas – and where the fuck is he, anyway? Because doesn’t he have a place in this weird-ass family reunion – 

But just as Dean thinks it, his eyes fall on Cas, walking forward. Cas isn’t wearing his trench coat, instead, its bundled in his arms, draped across another figure Dean can’t quite make out. Dean’s stomach drops, and he has the sudden, irrational urge to go running off through the wheat like Sammy did – but that’s stupid. So ridiculously stupid, and Dean doesn’t know why –

Cas gets closer, and it takes Dean a minute to realize the thing in Cas’s arms is, in fact, Jack. Body loose and sprawling. The kid’s unconscious. Has to be unconscious. Dean isn’t going to think about the other option. Not yet. 

It startles Dean into taking a few steps forward, and he trips into a jog to reach Cas. 

“Dean –” Cas starts. 

“Cas, what the fuck?” Dean says at the same time. 

“He – he’s alive,” Cas continues in a choked voice. “I believe his Grace was destroyed. And when his soul reattached itself, his body must have – but he’s alive. I thought for a moment, but –”

“Can we – shit, man,” Dean says. He doesn’t know quite how he’s supposed to feel right now. Because Jack is – Jack isn’t dead. And Cas seems to think Jack has his soul back. And Jack just frikken Death-Star-exploded Amara and Chuck. But Jack 

Jack killed Mom. 

“He tried to kill Sam,” Dean says. And he’s not sure why he says it. He stares at the limp form in Cas’s arms, and it’s impossible to reconcile this quiet, deathly pale child with the Jack who killed Mary and stormed into a living room to destroy God. 

Instead, he looks like Jack when he was sick. When he was dying. And Dean well remembers that cold, paralyzing fear as he sat at the kid’s bedside and couldn’t do one Goddamned thing to save him. 

Cas looks pained. “Dean, please” he whispers, like he can’t quite believe he’s hearing Dean correctly. Like Dean’s disappointed him in some basic and defining way. 

Something inside Dean’s head just decides to stop working. He can’t think about this right now. He wants Cas to stop looking at him. And he wants the kid to – he wants Jack to go away. It would make things a helluva lot simpler. 

The other are approaching now. Adam is subdued. Sam has his arm around Eileen’s shoulders, and she’s got her arm around his waist. Neither of them seems to want to let go. 

“Is he okay?” Sam says, voice concerned – the voice Dean should have used when he first saw Jack, but Dean – he couldn’t. 

“He’s alive,” Cas says. “But he’s – weak.” It starts to drizzle, a fine mist that coats Dean’s skin in a sheen of moisture. 

Eileen looks at the sky, then at the kid. “We should get him somewhere warm.”

“I’ve run past this field,” Sam says urgently. “The bunker’s only about a mile up the road.” 

OOO

_Present day_

“Perimeter check?” Dean says. 

“Yes,” Cas answers, lifting the blankets and climbing into the bed beside Dean. 

“You salt the door?”

“It’s okay, Dean.”

“Maybe I should check,” says Dean, and his voice is high with urgency. A little breathless. Just teetering on the edge of hysteria, and Cas knows it’s a bad night. Dean’s already half-way out of bed. 

“Dean,” he says calmly, because sometimes he can get out ahead of it before Dean starts spiraling, before Cas needs to ask him to take the diazepam. 

“Just let me,” Dean snaps, and maybe he realizes he sounds sharp, because he swallows a lungful of air, pushes it out too hard, and says again, nearly pleading. “Let me. I just – let me.”

“Okay, Dean,” Cas says. It’s easier to give in on nights like this. Sometimes checking the doors and windows, redrawing salt lines, coming back with a jug of holy water, makes it better. Sometimes it doesn’t, but Cas will deal with that when Dean gets back. Or if Cas has to go after him. But, for now, Cas waits in bed, because shadowing Dean when he’s like this can make him jumpier, can make him defensive and glum and suspicious. 

He remembers how Dean’s face blanched when Cas first showed him the farmhouse, how he’d so clearly been trying to hold himself together, been trying to put on a brave smile because he knew how much Cas liked the idea of moving out of the bunker. How he said, voice half-strangled, _there are so many windows._

Later that night, Cas found Dean bowed over the sink in the bathroom, shaking, and he choked _so many fucking windows, Cas. How the fuck are we supposed to salt all the ledges? And there are so many points of entry. We can’t possibly ward them all – we can’t –_

Cas’s heart sank, because he loved the little farmhouse, and he’d been excited to show it to Dean. He thought the clear air, sunlight, and large fields would be good for Dean instead of the musty, dank, and cold bunker. 

_It’s okay_ , Cas said at once. We don’t need to buy it. We’ll look somewhere else, Dean. It’s okay.

But the next morning Dean was better, and he insisted that the farmhouse was alright, that he’d be alright, that he was being foolish, and it was okay. They’d be okay. And it would be good. A move would be good. For Jack. For Cas. For Dean. They’d be alright. That was three weeks ago and, for the most part, they have been alright. 

Cas waits for ten minutes, is about to get out of bed to make sure Dean hasn’t decided he needs to check the outside of the house or grab a shotgun from the cabinet under the stairs, when Dean comes back in, sneaking through the door like a shadow. 

“All clear?” Cas asks, and he doesn’t mean to sound sarcastic, but Dean’s voice is still slightly sheepish when he replies, “Yeah.” Because Cas knows that Dean knows he’s being irrational and paranoid when he’s like this; but it isn’t something he can just turn off, so Cas tries to let Dean know that it’s alright, that there’s all the time in the world, and Cas isn’t impatient. That Cas will still be there when Dean comes back. 

“Then get into bed. It’s cold in here,” Cas orders, making sure there’s a smile in his voice. 

Dean rolls his eyes and huffs, “bossy,” under his breath, but he complies. 

It’s been an unusually cold and wet May, overcast and gloomy, and the farmhouse doesn’t have any heating except for a large fireplace in the downstairs living room. Cas hadn’t anticipated it would be a problem in the spring and coming summer months, but it turns out he was wrong. Days have been spent in layers of sweaters and thick socks, and nights under multiple blankets. 

Jack has taken the cold especially hard, considering the loss of temperature regulation he used to have through his Grace, and he usually parades through the hallways in a hoodie he stole from Sam and a knit cap pulled low over his ears. Dean protested that it made him look like a stoner. 

Dean crawls onto his side of the bed and immediately huddles near Cas’s body, for which Cas is doubly glad: one, because he’s grateful for the extra heat, and, two, because it means Dean’s latest bout of panic isn’t the kind that makes him tetchy and withholding, liable to bite Cas’s head off if he asks whether it’s alright to touch him. 

But Dean seems to have calmed down somewhat, even if Cas can still feel his heart racing below his ribs when he winds an arm around Dean’s shoulders and gently rubs his back the way he knows Dean likes. 

“Are you alright?” Cas asks, just to make sure. 

“M okay,” Dean says, part embarrassed, part subdued, and that’s how Cas knows that it’s mostly true: if Dean had snapped _I’m fine_ then Cas would know they weren’t out of the woods yet. Or worse, Dean might not have answered at all. 

Cas is beginning to understand Dean’s idiosyncrasies, the nonverbal and verbal cues for how he translates his emotions. There’s still much to learn, but, as he keeps reminding Dean, they have time. 

Cas drops a kiss onto Dean’s forehead. “I love you,” he says. 

Dean swallows, but doesn’t say anything. Another positive sign. There are nights when he spits _fuck off_ and immediately rolls away, sometimes gets back out of the bed to take refuge in the bathroom, the couch downstairs, or the back porch. But tonight isn’t one of those nights, and Cas is glad, even though it stings, just a little, whenever Dean doesn’t say _I love you_ back. 

Because Cas knows Dean will say it when he’s ready. Cas _knows_ this. For now, Dean communicates his love in other ways: in letting Cas hold him, in needing Cas, in wanting Cas, in cooking for Cas, and in asking Cas never to leave. And that can be enough. 

“Is that Jack?” Dean whips his head up so quickly, it’s only Cas’s well-practiced reflexes that save his nose from behind smashed by Dean’s forehead. For a minute, Dean sits perfectly still, eyes glinting in the darkness, breathing hard. Cas hears it too: a door creak shut from down the hall, soft footsteps, a creak of the stairs. 

“It’s Jack,” Cas says, keeping his voice measured. “Dean, it’s just Jack.”

“What’s he doing out of bed –” Dean says, and makes to roll out of bed, himself, but Cas reaches for him before he can move. He closes his hand around Dean’s forearm. Dean stills, but barely. Cas can feel the tension in his muscles as everything inside him obviously strains to make sure the house is still secure, that Jack is safe, that it really is Jack. 

“I’ll check,” Cas says. “Stay here.” _Breathe_ , he almost tells him, but he doesn’t, because the last time Cas suggested Dean try one of his numerous breathing exercises, he snapped _what the fuck you think I’m gonna do? Hold my breath for ten minutes?_

“Whatever,” Dean says gruffly, but he falls back against his pillow, and draws his arm over his eyes. It’s his right arm; his wrist is still splinted in a black brace, half metal and half fabric straps. It replaced his cast a few days ago, and Cas already wonders how much longer Dean will put up with it. 

Cas eases through the bedroom door. The hallway is silent and dark. Cas can hear Jack faintly from the kitchen downstairs. He hears a cabinet creak open, and then shut. He hears the hum of the refrigerator. Then he hears footsteps back on the stairs. A moment later, Jack reaches the stop of the stairs. 

“Everything alright?” Cas asks. 

“Shit!” Jack says, and nearly drops the bowl he’s carrying when he turns toward Cas in the darkness. Cas raises an eyebrow – it’s language Jack has certainly picked up from Dean. “Sorry,” Jack says quickly. “I was getting – I was hungry so I just went to get some – cereal,” Jack finishes, and sags a little. “I was just getting cereal.”

Privately, Cas thinks it’s a great deal too much nervousness for cereal, but he says out loud, “You should be sleeping, not eating cereal.” 

“I was hungry,” Jack protests. And it’s no wonder, Cas thinks, that they go through so much cereal between Jack’s midnight feasts and Dean’s morning binges. 

Cas sighs. “Very well. Don’t get milk on the sheets.” 

“I won’t,” Jack says. Cas can see a gleam of an abashed smile on Jack’s face. 

“Goodnight, Jack,” Cas says. 

“Night, Cas,” Jack replies, and turns down the hall. 

Cas lets out a breath and turns to let himself back into the bedroom. Dean’s lying where Cas left him: on his back with his arm over his face, but Cas can tell by his stiff posture that he’s been listening intently to the exchange. 

“Cheer up,” Dean says, not lifting his arm. “It’s just cereal. He could be doing drugs or watching porn.” 

“He doesn’t sleep enough,” Cas protests, and he climbs back into bed. Dean doesn’t immediately curl into him, and Cas hesitates for a moment before he turns on his side, placing an arm near Dean, but not quite touching him, not sure if the dynamics have changed again, even in the course of just a few minutes. 

“He’ll be okay,” Dean says. It’s empty reassurance, Cas knows, and Dean knows. There’s not much anyone could say that will help release the tight, unflinching hand of worry around Cas’s heart whenever he thinks about Jack – about Jack not sleeping, not eating at normal hours, spending too much time on the computer or watching television. 

But Cas is glad for Dean’s attempt, regardless. Anything is better than Dean’s stony silence that used to greet Cas whenever he tried to voice his concerns about Jack. It means Dean is thawing – that he is slowly but surely forgiving Jack for Mary’s death. 

Cas takes a moment to just stare at Dean. He is breathing steadier, but he’s still on his back, too stiff, and Cas doesn’t know how to suggest he relax. 

“Dean?” he whispers. And Dean grunts in reply. “May I hold you?” 

Cas watches as Dean’s belly rises and falls when he takes a deep breath. He watches Dean’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. It’s only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity, and Cas tries to think of a way of gently backtracking, at reassuring Dean that’s it’s alright – 

“Sure, man,” Dean says, voice painfully casual, and Cas regrets asking. The rules always seem to change, and Cas tries not to let it frustrate him. But sometimes it can be so difficult. 

But now Cas knows that withdrawing his offer will just make Dean embarrassed and defensive, so Cas carefully extends his arm, drapes it over Dean’s chest, and edges a little closer. 

Dean cringes in response to Cas’s touch. Just slightly. So slightly Cas wouldn’t have noticed it if he couldn’t feel the shiver through his own arm. 

“Dean,” Cas says, and immediately begins to withdraw, but then Dean finally takes his arm away from his face, and catches Cas’s arm before he can pull it away. 

“No,” Dean says quickly. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” He takes another deep breath, one that shudders on the exhale, but he turns his head and gives Cas a smile that’s not quite convincing. Dean turns on his side so he’s facing Cas. Their faces are close together. “I’m okay,” he says again. 

“Would you like me to leave my arm where it is?” Cas says, and he smiles, too, because he wants to keep it light. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He shuts his eyes. “Yeah. It’s fine.” 

So, Cas leaves his arm around Dean’s waist, and waits as the tension slowly bleeds out of Dean’s body. He relaxes his grip on Cas’s wrist and lets his arm drop. He leaves his eyes closed. He’s breathing better now, and Cas looks at his perfect cupid’s bow, the angle of his cheekbones, the way his hair sweeps across his forehead. He can’t see his freckles in the dark, but he knows what they look like. He can imagine how they dust his nose and cheeks. He looks a little healthier than he had weeks ago – not quite so gaunt. His face is less angular, and his ribs don’t protrude quite so drastically under Cas’s hand. Cas knows the medication is helping him gain weight, and he’s eating better again. 

“You just gonna stare, or you gonna kiss me?” Dean grouses, one side of his lips digging into his cheek. 

Cas smiles more readily, and immediately brings his head forward to meet Dean’s lips with his own. Dean opens his mouth, nibbles on Cas’s bottom lip, slips his tongue out to run around the rim of Cas’s mouth. 

Cas responds instinctually – Dean has said that Cas’s not a half-bad kisser, despite his inexperience, and Dean would know things like that, so Cas has learned to take guidance from Dean’s own movements: opening his mouth in the same way, searching Dean’s mouth with his tongue like Dean has done to him – around his lips, over the ridges of his teeth, into the warm and soft insides of his cheeks, curling tongue-and-tongue. 

Dean makes a low, soft hum in the back of his throat, and Cas can’t help it – he feels blood rushing to his penis, making him erect, desperate for some kind of touch, warmth, or friction. 

Dean moves like he can sense Cas’s arousal. He capture’s Cas’s legs under one of his own, uses it to hook himself closer. Cas tightens his hold around Dean’s waist until they lie with their chests flush. 

Dean’s breath is hot and quick. His eyes are still closed. And Cas knows it’s creepy to keep your eyes open when you’re kissing someone – he knows because Dean’s told him – but sometimes Cas can’t help it: Dean is beautiful. 

Dean draws Castiel’s tongue into his mouth, circles his lips around it, and curls his own tongue around the tip. Cas’s breath catches in his throat. He ruts up against Dean’s leg almost without thinking. 

Dean’s hand creeps to the elastic band of Cas’s sweatpants, inches over the edge with his fingers. Cas draws his mouth away from Dean’s – and his body is thrumming with want, aching with the need to be touched, but Cas never knows how to react when things like this happen. Because he understands that sometimes Dean acts without really wanting to, that he does things out of a misguided need to make something up to Castiel, that he’s overcompensating because he feels like he’s disappointing someone. 

It’s hard to trust Dean sometimes – with his own body and with Cas’s. 

“Dean,” he breathes. 

“Cas, it’s –” Dean says, almost like he anticipates Cas’s reluctance. “It – it’s okay.” His eyebrows are pinched. His eyes are still closed. He swallows. Pushes his fingers further into Cas’s waistband, so his fingertips touch the first strands of Cas’s pubic hair, and Cas gulps. 

“Dean,” he says again. He brings up a hand, gently presses his thumb against Dean’s wrist, eases his hand away. 

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean says again, almost urgently, and Cas’s stomach plummets. He can already feel his arousal easing out of his body, for which he’s glad. “I’ll make it good for you. I can – I can make it good.”

“Dean,” Cas insists, and maybe this time Dean will hear it. But Dean’s hand is trembling, very slightly, under Cas’s grip as Cas pulls Dean’s hand out of his pants, lifts it to Cas’s mouth. Cas presses his lips to Dean’s knuckles. He gently plies Dean’s fist open and kisses the heel of Dean’s hand, traces Dean’s thumb with his lips. 

Dean sucks in a trembling breath, half way to a gasp. 

“It already is good, Dean,” Cas says. “I don’t need you to rush yourself.” 

Dean’s kept his eyes closed through the entire ordeal, and Cas knows they’re shut now against embarrassment. Cas lifts his free hand and uses it to cup Dean’s cheek. He can feel the rush of heat under Dean’s skin. 

Dean flinches marginally under the new point of contact, but then he turns his face into the touch. Cas sweeps his thumb slowly down Dean’s face, from the edge of his eye socket to the corner of his mouth. Dean curls his hand back into a fist, maybe to get away from Cas’s lips, and grips Cas’s hand tightly. 

Dean takes two sharp, quick breaths, and Cas knows he’s trying to ground himself, bringing himself back down from the tension of the previous moment. Then Dean deflates, turns his head into his pillow, releases Cas’s hand, and looks like he wants to hide. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“I don’t think I should enable your self-doubt by accepting that apology,” Cas says wryly. He waits to see if Dean will be receptive to the humor, but Dean seems too preoccupied with taking deep breaths. Cas nudges his face closer to Dean’s. 

Cas sees Dean square his jaw. He knows Dean’s biting his lip against a protest, but then he counts it as progress when Dean doesn’t voice it out loud. It isn’t the first time this has happened – with either Cas or Dean pulling back when things become too heated. Cas knows Dean feels unbalanced and awkward after it happens. He feels like he’s letting Cas down. And Cas is trying to find the right ways to let Dean know that that isn’t true. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Dean,” Cas says firmly, and presses his lips to Dean’s temple. “We have so much time,” he says. And it’s true. All the time in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes a long time for Dean to drag himself back to consciousness. His body reacts sluggishly in the mornings now, just one more thing he hates about the drugs they have him on. He’s less reactive, less able to orient himself. It’s an advantage to sleep next to Cas, because at least he’s able to respond to high alert situations, but Dean hates knowing that he won’t be able to react the way he’s supposed to if there’s an emergency. If something breaks through their warding. Or if he gets a call from someone who needs help. 

Not that Dean could be much help. He can’t even fucking drive because the antipsychotics make him too dizzy. Which is bullshit because it’s not like he’s never driven while concussed or zonked out on pain meds or even after one or two or three slugs of booze. And he hasn’t wrecked the car, yet. 

And he can’t shoot. Because the tremor in his hands that he’d half-heartedly hoped would disappear after detox hasn’t gone away yet. And Dean’s beginning to think it never will. Either way, his aim’s gone to hell. He snuck down to the firing range in the bunker before they moved out, just to check; he at least hit the target, but his grouping’s all skewed, and that was after five minutes of carefully steadying his wrist. So shit. Because it’s not like he’s gonna have that kind of time during a high stakes situation. 

Dean fumbles at the mattress beside him, looking for Cas. It’s just because he likes feeling him beside him. He’s gotten used to having someone else in bed with him. Secretly, that’s one of the things he liked best about his hookups: the afterwards. It’s not like – it’s _chicks_ who dig the postcoital cuddling stuff. But Dean can’t deny that it was a benefit. Like he never complained about it. 

And he reaches for Cas now just because he wants to make sure he’s still there. It’s just a reassurance thing. Like he used to lay awake in motel rooms, making sure he could still hear Sam breathing. 

Dean fishes for Cas’s warm body next to his, and he tries to smother the disappointment and anxiety that stabs in his chest when he doesn’t find it. He turns his head and looks at the empty pillow just to make sure. 

Cas is gone. And it’s fine. It’s fucking fine. Cas is probably – Dean listens hard for a second, still unused to how clearly sounds travel in the small farmhouse compared to the bunker, and he hears both the shower running and someone puttering in the kitchen downstairs – so Cas is in either of those places. 

But more than it bothers Dean that Cas isn’t still in bed, it bothers him that Dean slept through Cas getting out of bed. There’s no excuse for Dean to be that out of it. He knows it’s the drugs that drag him into such a deep stupor, and, fuck, sure it’s nice to actually sleep a whole night through every once in a while, but not at the expense of losing this much of an edge. 

Because if he can sleep through someone leaving his room, then he can sleep through someone entering it. And Dean can’t afford to be taken unaware. 

Dean tries to breathe through his frustration, the cloying sense of unease that sits like a rock in the center of his chest. It’s always there. Just a constant knot of tension inside his body, waiting to implode. He breathes until it lessens to a simmer. 

It might have been easier if Cas had been there. But, fuck this shit, because it’s not like Dean can expect Cas to be there every second of every day. And after last night – after Dean fucked up _again_ ¬– it’s not like Dean blames Cas for not sticking around in the morning. He probably didn’t want to put Dean through another – _whatever_. 

But, truth is, sometimes it’s easier in the morning. When the pull of drugs and sleep combine to mimic the foggy unawareness alcohol used to bring. The fuzziness, the lack of impulse control, the blankness in his head that makes things just a little easier to push through. Makes it a little harder to think about other people’s hands on his body and just concentrate on Cas’s. 

And it’s not like Dean can get out of bed now and go into the kitchen or into the bathroom or find Cas wherever else he might be and to approach him with a – a kiss on the back of the neck or however people are supposed to initiate sex. Because Dean used to be good at shit like that, but now he can’t make his body work the way it’s supposed to. And he can’t just fucking _ask_ him. Like out loud. 

Because actually talking about it makes it all too real. Makes everything else rise up to the surface, too. And Dean needs less awareness to make this work, not more. He just needs to find a way to shut his brain off. 

And quickly. Because it’s already been a month since this – this _thing_ – with Cas started up, and they haven’t even had sex yet. And that’s definitely the longest by a large margin Dean’s ever slept with someone without getting into their pants or letting them get into his. It’s not like Dean doesn’t want to – he _wants_ Cas in a way he’s never really wanted anyone else, because Cas doesn’t just mean physical intimacy, he also means a kind of steady companionship and presence that Dean’s yearned for his entire life. And it’s not like they haven’t tried – they’ve made out and felt each other up a little – but each time Dean keeps ruining it. 

Once Dean made his way down Cas’s stomach until he had Cas’s zipper half-way down, but then Cas caught Dean’s chin in his hand, and something about the touch made Dean feel like he’d been zapped with electricity. And then he was eighteen-years-old again and getting on his knees for the first time – and then he was shaking and trying not to puke, and Cas was running his hands through Dean’s hair while Dean curled in on himself, making strangled, animal noises because he couldn’t fucking breathe. So, yeah. It kinda killed the mood. 

And once Dean worked Cas up to an orgasm with a hand job, but then he wouldn’t let Cas reciprocate, so now Cas has a stupid ass unspoken policy where he won’t let Dean touch him unless Dean’s also comfortable with Cas touching _Dean_. Which is so fucking stupid because it’s not like hand jobs are even real sex, and Dean doesn’t understand why Cas can’t just let him – because Dean _likes_ making other people feel good, and it doesn’t matter whether or not he feels good, in return, because it’s not like his own pleasure is what’s keeping food on the table – 

And shit. 

Dean doesn’t understand why it’s always _there_. It never used to be. And the bullshit psychiatrist explained that Dean’s fucking _trauma_ seemed especially intense right now because he’d just lost his twenty-years old coping mechanism. And it’s not like Dean even wanted to stop drinking. If he hadn’t stopped drinking, then none of this would be an issue now. 

So now he needs to find something else to replace booze – some way of just stuffing it all out of sight again – if he ever wants to have sex with Cas without freaking out. Or, at least, if he ever wants to convince Cas to have sex with Dean. 

Dean rolls over and shoves himself into a sitting position with a groan, waiting impatiently for the unsettling lightheaded feeling to dissipate. He fumbles for his phone on the side of the bed, and he touches open the screen. It’s already after nine, and he has several reminder notifications about getting his ass out of bed and down to the kitchen so he can take his meds. 

It was Cas’s idea to keep the pills downstairs. He said it would help Dean form some kind of fucking routine if it meant he had to wake up and go downstairs every day. Except for the valium, which Cas keeps in his bedside table, because it’s only for when it gets really bad and apparently it’s highly addictive or some shit and with Dean’s fucking _history_ or whatever, Cas wanted to keep an eye on it, and it’s not like Cas doesn’t trust him, but it does serve as a deter if Dean would ever – but he won’t – because it’s not like he’s going to go fishing around in Cas’s drawers for the crap. 

Fuck this. And he rolls himself back into the blankets and curls up on his side. He is so fucking sick of this shit. 

He can hear someone climbing the stairs on the other side of the wall. He’s pretty sure it’s Cas, although his and Jack’s treads sound so familiar. But Cas has a little more shuffle in his early-morning walk. 

Sure enough, Cas shoulders open the door a second later. He’s carrying a glass of water and Dean’s pills. 

“You should be up,” Cas says. There’s a frown in his voice, and Dean doesn’t look up, even though he knows it’s useless to pretend he’s still asleep. 

Dean doesn’t say anything. At this point he’d only tell Cas to fuck off, and he already knows Cas won’t do that. 

“Here,” Cas says, and pushes the glass of water toward Dean’s face in a movement that’s not quite a shove, but firm enough that Dean can’t ignore it unless he physically swatted him away. 

Dean rolls his eyes and sits back up. Then he has to wait for his head to stop fucking spinning _again_ before he takes the glass of water, and then he pinches the pills out of Cas’s palm. 

“You gonna check to see if I swallowed ‘em?” Dean sneers after he’s taken the pills, but Cas simply takes the empty glass again. 

“We need to leave soon. Your appointment’s at ten,” Cas says patiently. 

“Shit,” Dean says, and lets his head fall against the headboard. And Dean’s not usually such a piss-baby about it. He really isn’t. But last night coupled with the idea of seeing Dr. Yellow Beard again – because Dr. Jorgensen doesn’t just ask Dean about the medication and the side effects, he also expects Dean to fucking talk or some shit, and the last time Dean saw him he just sat there in stony silence for an hour until he could finally leave. And then he had to deal with Cas’s silence on the way back, because it was like Cas could sense Dean’d been uncooperative. 

But it’s not like Dean can help it. Because even if he wanted to talk to a psychiatrist – and he doesn’t – he wouldn’t want to talk to Dr. Jorgensen, who literally had to tie Dean down to a hospital bed one of the first times they met, so not a great first impression – and, anyway, it’s not like Dean can actually be truthful about any of the shit that’s gone down in his life, because then he’d be in real trouble. 

So now he just needs to bite his lip and wait for the biweekly appointments to change to three-month medication reviews, and then maybe Sam and Cas will finally be satisfied and stop holding the threat of a facility over Dean’s head like some cartoon anvil. 

“Dean, come on,” Cas says, and his voice is definitely less patient now, and resembles Sammy’s petulant-little-brother-tone a little too closely. And Dean feels a little guilty. Because, shit, Cas is just trying to help, as he says so frequently, but Dean just wishes he’d stop treating Dean with the fucking kiddy gloves. 

“Get the fuck out, Cas,” Dean says before he can think better of it. “I’ll be down in a minute.” 

If Cas looks hurt at Dean’s outburst, then Dean doesn’t see it, because he keeps his head down when he gets out of bed, and he doesn’t turn around until after Cas’s footsteps have retreated across the room and he’s shut the door behind him. He doesn’t even slam it. Which – yeah. _Better man than I am, Gunga Din,_ and all that jazz. 

Dean gets dressed in a huff, feeling not a little like a toddler having a temper tantrum. Then he clomps out of the bedroom, just in time to nearly run into Jack, who’s coming out of the bathroom with wet hair. 

“Hi,” Jack chirps, or maybe squeaks; Dean isn’t sure how fierce he currently looks. 

He grunts a passable good morning at the kid before heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth. And then he can’t help but feel guilty about that, too, and then he thinks about how wan and tired the kid looked. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders were drooping. Come to think of it, Jack’s usually not out of bed before noon, so it’s weird to see him up before nine-thirty; practically the crack of dawn. Which makes Dean wonder uneasily if maybe Jack just hadn’t slept at all last night – Dean’s done it enough himself to recognize the signs. 

Cas is waiting for him when Dean comes downstairs. Dean expects him to harp about eating breakfast, maybe push an apple on him or some crap because Cas is getting almost as bad as Sammy about this healthy eating schtick. But Cas doesn’t say anything, just shrugs on his coat to keep off the rain and leads the way to the front door. 

And at this point Dean isn’t quite sure who’s giving who the silent treatment. 

They take Cas’s truck. Because Dean refuses to let Cas touch the Impala; if Dean can’t drive it, then no one else can. But Dean hates Cas’s stupid truck, mostly because Cas loves it so much, and it’s just a hunk of plastic and metal – not a classic like Baby. And mostly because Dean hates being carted around like he’s a fucking middle schooler. 

And he hates not driving. He fucking hates it so much. Because driving’s always been a way to quiet his head and converge on a one-point focus. He can’t stop fidgeting. He jogs his knee, and taps his fingers on his thigh and keeps craning his head over his shoulder to – he doesn’t know. Look for speeding traffic or some shit. 

And he hates the whole thing with the not being able to make decisions for himself, being wheeled around like some kind of helpless invalid. It feels almost like being possessed.

Wordlessly, Cas takes a hand off the wheel and reaches across the divider between the two seats to take hold of Dean’s hand. Dean lets him, because he figures his constant jittering is probably getting on Cas’s nerves. 

“You’re alright, Dean,” Cas says soothingly. Because, of course, Cas gets over being angry first. 

Dean doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t do conflict resolution. He does pissed-off until he’s not pissed-off anymore. He does storming out of a motel room and cooling off in a bar for a few hours and pretending nothing happened when he decides to come back home. 

“Sorry,” Dean says tautly. He doesn’t know if it’s sorry for the fidgeting, or for messing up last night again, or for being so snippy this morning. Or for making Cas drive him around like Cas is his soccer mom or something. 

Dean doesn’t usually know what he’s apologizing for. It’s something Sam’s called him out on before, said that it wasn’t really an apology if Dean didn’t even understand what needed to be fixed. But it’s just – everything. Pick anything, and Dean’s sorry. There is so much Dean’s messing up, literally throw a dart at the map and Dean will apologize for it. 

“You don’t need to be sorry, Dean,” Cas says, flicking his eyes over, and his eyebrows are drawn in that sympathetic mode that half-way sets Dean’s teeth on edge and half-way makes his stomach clench. “I understand.” 

But Cas doesn’t understand, not really. Because it’s not like anyone is harping on Cas to let someone root around his brain with a pick and shovel. It’s not like Dean’s the only one who’s lived a screwed-up life, here. Sam’s seen just as much shit, maybe more, than Dean has. And Cas has lived through fucking _millennia_. Dean’d like to see him try to unpack that with a psychiatrist. It’s not like Dean’s any worse off –

Dean’s stomach twists. It still makes him squirm with discomfort and shame to think about last month. To think about Cas and Sam finding him in that motel room. Because it wasn’t like –

And Dean hasn’t had any inklings to…at least not serious thoughts. No _plans_ , which is what the doc asked him about when he explained the difference between actively and passively suicidal. And Dean figures he’s been pretty much passively suicidal his whole life, but he hasn’t _actually_ thought about doing anything about it for a few weeks now. Hasn’t felt that eerie and focused calm. The impulsive and irresistible pull to – 

Not for a while. 

But Dean doesn’t say any of that out loud. He just swallows, stares out the window. But he doesn’t pull his hand away, and Cas keeps holding it. So there’s that. 

OOO

“Have you been having any delusions? Any trouble distinguishing between what’s real and what’s not real?” Dr. Jorgensen says from the chair across from Dean’s chair. 

“Nope,” Dean says. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, and he’s trying hard not to tap his foot. 

“And no more hallucinations?” 

“No.” 

“What about flashbacks?” 

Dean hesitates. Because it’s not strictly part of Sam, Cas, and Dean’s deal that he’s truthful with the psychiatrist, but he supposes it’s probably implied. 

“No,” Dean says. 

“Mmh-hmm,” the doctor says, and makes a note on his damn clipboard. “And nightmares – have they gotten better?” 

Dean rolls his eyes before he can stop himself. Nightmares are just nightmares. He’s been dealing with them his whole life, and he’s not about to stop. “They’re fine.” 

And they aren’t as bad. Really. Still the same old shitshow. Dean still wakes up with a racing heart, but he doesn’t shoot up in bed looking for his gun, doesn’t come up swinging, but he thinks that has more to do with the heavy, spacy feel the meds leave inside his head, like he's not super well attached to himself anymore. It takes an extra half a second for thoughts to translate into motion, so by the time reflex tells him to swipe at nightmare monsters, his body’s already too tired to respond, so he just slumps against the pillows instead. 

The feeling travels with him during the day, too.

“Panic attacks?” 

“No.” _Fuck_. And Dean thinks about Cas, who’s clearly so sick of Dean’s bullshit, and he’s right outside in the waiting room, flipping through a backdated _Time_ magazine. “Yes,” Dean grinds out. 

The doctor finally looks up from his clipboard, “Approximately how often, can you say?” 

Dean taps his fingers against his side, behind his crossed arms so the doctor can’t see. He wants to leave. He told the truth, dammit, so now he wants to leave. Now he gets to leave. 

“I dunno,” Dean says, and shrugs. Maybe once a day if he’s lucky, but he’s not going to admit to that. “Not often.” 

“Less often since you started the medication, or about the same?” 

“Less often,” Dean lies. He’s still not sure what path he’s supposed to take here: if he’s supposed to pretend the meds work or pretend they don’t so he can get off them quicker. 

Dr. Jorgensen cocks an eyebrow, and Dean has the horribly disquieting feeling that he can see right through Dean. “That’s good to hear. And how are the side effects you mentioned last time? Dizziness, nausea, headache, and drowsiness – have they changed?”

“It’s fine,” Dean says stiffly. It’s like fucking pulling teeth. Can’t the doc just ask if Dean’s okay and then let him leave? 

Dr. Jorgensen crosses his legs. He puts the clipboard on the table by his side. Then he fixes Dean with the same look Dean’s seen on dozens of principal’s faces across the country. It’s a _cut the crap, young man_ look, and it does zero to improve Dean’s mood or make it more likely that he’ll suddenly go all sharing and caring here. 

“So, Dean,” he starts. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about during this session?” 

“Nope,” Dean says again. Because two can play at the stoic, stubborn sonovabitch game. And Dean’s probably been playing it longer. 

“What about you and your partner Castiel?” Dr. Jorgensen prompts – and it’s weird, because the doc only knows about Cas and Dean because Cas had to lie about being Dean’s partner if he wanted to be filled in by the hospital. _Sam_ doesn’t even fucking know yet. “Dealing with a mental illness can put a strain on a relationship –”

“We’re fucking fine,” Dean snaps. So much for keeping it reined in. He doesn’t know which word rankles the most: _mental illness_ or _relationship_. 

“That’s good to hear,” Dr. Jorgensen says, and Dean’s never heard more skepticism plugged into one sentence; this guy rivals even Sam. “And his son…is it Jack? What’s your relationship like with him?” 

“Fine,” Dean says. His throat is tight. Jack isn’t sleeping. And he’s eating cereal at midnight. And he keeps doing all sorts of uncomfortable and vulnerable things that remind Dean that he’s just a human. That he’s just a kid. And he killed Mom less than a year ago. But he didn’t mean it. 

“Do you spend much time with Jack?” Dr. Jorgensen seems to have taken a step back; his tone is more conversational now. But Dean doesn’t let it fool him; the shrink’s not the only one who can keep notes. 

“We live together, so sure,” Dean says. 

“Would you consider yourself to have a father-like relationship with him?” 

_Here’s our kid_. He killed Mom. _But he’s our kid._

“No,” Dean says. And he thinks about yelling at Ben that one time he got into the trunk of the Impala, of shoving Ben in the hallway. Of Dad hitting Dean hard enough he could taste blood in his mouth. 

Dean’s still tapping against his ribs. It’s one of his tells. He knows it because Dad pointed it out a couple dozen times. But it’s not a tell for when he’s lying. It’s a tell for when he’s getting too close to the truth. “Or yeah. I don’t know. Sure.” 

Dr. Jorgensen almost smiles, and Dean wants to punch him in the teeth. “Does your relationship with Jack make you examine your relationship with your own father?” 

_Fuck this shit_. 

“I don’t know what the fuck Sam told you about our dad. But he wasn’t fucking _abusive_ , okay?” It’s out of his mouth before he can think about it, and once it’s there, he can’t swallow it back.

Dean looks at the corner of the office. There’s a bookshelf full of psychiatry textbooks and self-care literature. There’s a clock on one of the shelves. Dean’s still stuck here for another forty-five minutes. 

“I’m not here to argue with you,” Dr. Jorgensen says. And then the fucker just goes silent. Dean watches two minutes tick by on the clock. 

“I’m going to ask you about a few of the things you mentioned while you were in the hospital, is that alright?” Dr. Jorgensen finally cracks. 

Dean doesn’t think it’s the kind of question he’s allowed to say no to. So, he just keeps staring at the bookshelf, trying not to let his unease show on his face, because he only remembers bits and pieces of the three days he spent in the hospital, and he has no idea what he might have said during that time. 

“You mentioned that you’d been hurt by someone – the word you actually used was tortured – can you tell me whether that’s an actual experience or something you hallucinated?” 

Dean can’t stop his heartbeat from picking up at the word _torture_. It’s suddenly harder to keep his face blank. He curls both hands into fists, bites his fingernails into his palms. And he’s okay. He’s okay. It’s been more than ten years since Sam killed Alastair. 

Dean isn’t quite sure what will happen if he confesses that it was all a hallucination – but he sure as hell can’t begin to explain that it was real. 

“It was – ah – not a big deal. It was just –” Dean has no idea what kind of lie would be convincing in this situation. He’s usually so good at bullshitting his way out of uncomfortable situations, but now he feels wrongfooted and panicked. His palms are sweaty. There’s something tight and aching in the middle of his chest. 

“Do you often find yourself minimizing your pain?” Dr. Jorgensen says, and Dean had been expecting a follow-up question about Alastair, so it takes his mind a minute to catch up. 

“What?” he snaps. 

“When you say things like ‘not a big deal’ or that it was ‘just’ something, you’re diminishing the value of your own experiences. Do you know why you do that?” 

_You’re the fucking shrink, you tell me_ , Dean wants to say, but he bites the inside of his lip instead. Tries to count to ten so he doesn’t explode. He can’t afford to go off the rails here. Not when it’s so important he convince everyone else that he’s okay again. 

“In the hospital you spoke about how you cared for your brother during your childhood. You rescued him from the housefire that killed your mother. You’ve tried your best to protect him. Do you think your impulse to deflect your own pain also comes from a place of trying to protect the people around you? The people you care for?” 

Dean remembers spewing a lot of bullshit to the doctor about the fire, about Dad and Sam’s arguments, about them leaving Dean. He thinks he might have said something about that shotgun in the Walmart parking lot. But he can’t be sure. He was half out of his mind – it isn’t fair for the doctor to pull that stuff out of his ass now. 

“It was my job,” Dean says. His throat is dry. “I just – it wasn’t” _a big deal._ Fuck. “It was something I had to do. Our dad was gone a lot for work. I looked after Sam because – it was fine.” 

“Did you ever resent that responsibility?” Dr. Jorgensen insists. “Did you ever think your father demanded too much of you?” 

It’s so ridiculous that Dean can’t help but snort. Because, yeah. Fuck this. Dean knows it was bullshit that Dad taught him how to shoot a shotgun when he was only six years old. Dean’s already dealt with that crap. He knows Dad messed up. Hell, he knows Mom messed up. He isn’t still hung up on that shit. 

But he also knows that it wasn’t all Dad’s fault. That Dad was out fighting evil sons of bitches that this university-grad, preppy-ass psychiatrist would piss his pants over, and Dean had to look after Sammy, because someone had to. And it was Dean’s job. It’s still his job. And, he swears to God, if this douchewad starts rambling about _safe spaces_ or some shit, Dean’s gonna put his fist through the wall. 

Because he can’t. He’s self-aware enough to know he’s got a handle on his crap, right now. A month ago, for a while, maybe he didn’t. It all spun a little out of control. But now it’s okay again. And if Dean starts loosening that pressure valve, it’s only a matter of time before it all blows off. Takes a couple heads with it, maybe. 

“No,” Dean says. “My dad did what he had to do. So did I.” 

“Okay,” Dr. Jorgensen’s is a perfectly measured and reasonable tone of voice that makes Dean want to get out of the chair and storm out. 

And it wasn’t like there was anything legally requiring him to stay here. He could just leave. Not come back. The doctor couldn’t do anything about it. But the thought of Cas in the waiting room, Cas looking up from his magazine in confusion as soon as Dean pushed out of the door, Cas wanting to talk to Dean later, Cas and Sam reminding Dean that he wasn’t holding up his part of the bargain – 

Shit. Just like that, the idea of _trapped_ slips into Dean’s head, and his stomach clenches. His esophagus closes up. It’s suddenly harder to breathe. Harder not to let the doctor see. 

“Would you be more comfortable talking about something other than your father?” Dr. Jorgensen says. 

It’s another question Dean doesn’t know how to answer. If he says yes, it means admitting he’s uncomfortable. It means agreeing to talk about something else. But, if he says no, it means he has to talk more about Dad. And he’s not going to talk more about Dad. Unlike Sam, Dean knows that family business is supposed to stay in the fucking family. 

So, Dean doesn’t say anything. Dr. Jorgensen still sounds completely unphased when he says, “Do you plan on just sitting silently for the rest of our session like last time?” And Dean wonders what he needs to do to irritate the guy. 

“Sounds like a good plan,” Dean says. “I could use the nap.” 

“Dean,” Dr. Jorgensen sounds calm, but now there’s a noticeable edge of disappointment to his tone. It’s back to the school principal voice – the one that started out _you’re a new student, Dean. We don’t want you to start out on the wrong foot,_ before they quickly realized he was a lost cause, there was no such thing as a right foot where the older Winchester kid was concerned, and might as well just give him detention. 

“Post-traumatic stress disorder occurs when your mind is unable to process the trauma you’ve experienced,” Dr. Jorgensen continues. “Effectively, you’re brain and body is ‘stuck’ within that trauma. You won’t be able to move on unless you allow yourself to feel your pain. I know you don’t want to be here. I understand that the prospect of reliving whatever you’ve been through probably seems excruciating, but you need to understand that simply repressing these feelings – through alcohol or refusing to talk about it – it’s not going to work. In fact, it will probably make it worse.” 

“Well that’s great,” Dean says. “That’s just fucking great.” 

“I’ve said it before,” Dr. Jorgensen says, like some kind of arrogant bastard, “I can help you. But only if you let me.” 

“I don’t need help,” Dean says fiercely. He doesn’t mean to sound so aggressive, but his chest is tight and he can’t force the words up his throat otherwise. “What I need is for people to stop treating me like I’m a kid.” 

“I understand that you’re frustrated, Dean –”

“You don’t understand shit,” Dean says. He’s visited by the sudden, irrational impulse to tell Dr. Jorgensen exactly how much and exactly what he does not understand. 

_Did you know I spent a fucking lifetime in Hell? Do you know how many times I’ve had to watch my brother die? What about when I played host to a sadistic archangel for fucking months while he kept me so mired in oceans of my own trauma I couldn’t even breathe? That partner you keep mentioning? He’s an ex-angel. And sometimes I can’t even let him touch me because it sends me freefalling through every single time I got down on my knees so my little brother wouldn’t have to starve. Every time someone decided to turn my body against me. Decided to control me. Decided to use me. And I can’t separate their touch from Cas’s._

Every breath hurts. Dean’s uncomfortable aware that he’s been silent for too long. Dr. Jorgensen’s clearly asked him some kind of follow-up question, and now he’s waiting for Dean to reply. 

“Dean,” Dr. Jorgensen says gently. “Where you just went – can you tell me about that?” 

“No,” Dean says. Just breathe. He just breathes. 

“Can you tell me why?” Dr. Jorgensen insists. “Is it because you physically can’t or because you don’t want to?” 

Dean hates this. He hates crossing that threshold where everything’s safely bottled up to where everything’s too much. That, anyone, as long as they dig hard enough and long enough, can send Dean tumbling over the edge. He unwinds his arms from his chest so he can run a hand over his face. 

“I don’t know,” he says. He wants the doctor to drop it. He wants to run out of the fucking door. He wants to put the doctor’s head through the wall. But he focuses on the pain of digging his nails into his hand. He can’t afford to snap. There might not be any legal requirement for him to be in this office, but assaulting a psychiatrist is a surefire way to getting himself shipped off to a padded cell. 

“Can you describe what you’re experiencing inside your body right now?” Dr. Jorgensen says. “Accelerated heartbeat? Any tension?”

Dean doesn’t do this shit. He doesn’t do meditation, psychobabble, mindfulness crap. He lets his head drop against the back of the chair. He stares at the ceiling because it’s easier than the doctor’s unflinching gaze. 

“My chest is tight,” he says. 

“Do you remember the breathing exercise I taught you last session?” 

“Yes,” Dean says, because it’s easier not to fight it. He breathes in. Holds for four second. Breathes out. And it was Lisa who taught him that first. Put her hand on his stomach and asked him softly to breathe with her. Just breathe. 

“Can you tell me what’s inside your head right now?” Dr. Jorgensen says. “Just the first thought you notice. You can shut your eyes, if it helps.” 

Dean shuts his eyes. He thinks about Alastair pressing the handle of a knife into Dean’s palm. 

“I, um,” Dean says. “I was six when my dad taught me how to shoot a gun. He was –” _obsessed_. “He wanted to make sure I could protect Sam. He didn’t start leaving us alone until I was eight or nine. And, ah, one time I got bored so I left.” _You were a kid,_ was Sam’s defense of the action when Dean told him about it. A dumb kid, but Dean should have known better. “Someone – ah, someone broke into our room. Dad got back in time. But – if he hadn’t –” 

_Sam would have died. Sam would have died and the angels’ plan would have been foiled because it’s not like Michael would have pursued Dean if Lucifer’s vessel had died when he was five-years-old._ But Dean tries to stifle the thought because he doesn’t care when he thinks about the should-have-beens regarding his own death, but he hates it when his brain inevitably turns toward Sam’s death: the horrible, ugly truth that, had one or both of them died, then so much of this crap could have been avoided. 

“Dad, ah –” _never looked at me the same. Until the day he died he never looked at me the same._ “It was the first time he hit me.” _I deserved it. He should have left me behind. He should have dumped my ass._ “He – it wasn’t like it was a regular thing. It was just because I screwed up.” 

“Can you tell me about some of the other times he hit you?” 

And Dean almost forgot the psychiatrist was in the room. He keeps his eyes closed. Tries not to think about it too hard. Tries not to think about the fact that he’s talking about shit that he’s literally never said out loud before. Each word feels like it’s being physically torn from his chest, scraping up his throat, leaving bloody tracks down his chin. It makes his speech choppy and stilted: 

“I snuck off once. Went to a club. I was a kid. Sixteen. And there was this group of people there. They got me drunk and high. One of the guys – ah, he kissed me. It was the first time a guy ever – but then Dad burst in. Dragged me outside. I told him I hated him.” _I hate you. I fucking hate you._

And Sammy was in the car. Sammy was watching. And Dean couldn’t bear the thought of Sammy seeing Dad hit him, so Dean got off the sidewalk, spat blood out of his mouth, smiled through the stinging pain in his cheek. Tried to play it off like he’d just stumbled. 

“And your father hit you?” Dr. Jorgensen guesses. 

“Cause I ran away,” Dean breathes. “I disobeyed him. I could have gotten hurt.”

“He shouldn’t have hit you, Dean,” Dr. Jorgensen says gently. And it’s the kind of voice you use to reassure children. “Maybe he thought he was just trying to protect you, but hurting you wasn’t protecting you.” 

_You have no idea – no idea what he was trying to protect us from_. 

“Would you like to continue talking about this?” Dr. Jorgensen says. 

There’s something cold and painful in the center of Dean’s stomach. “No,” he says. Because he’s allowed to say no. That’s what Cas told him. He’s allowed to say no. 

“Okay,” Dr. Jorgensen says. “Thank you for telling me, Dean.”

And then he lets Dean go even though it’s a few minutes early. Like actually talking yields rewards – some kind of positive reinforcement shit. Give the kid a cookie for doing what he’s told. 

Cas looks up from his magazine as soon as Dean steps through the door. There must be something on his face, because Cas’s eyebrows immediately furrow. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says immediately. He swallows, because his voice is hoarse. “Let’s just – just fucking go, okay?” And he leads the way out of the office.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for disappearing; I got lost in the labyrinth of my final thesis draft. Which is now done. And holy shit Imma have a Masters in like two weeks O_O

Dean takes refuge in the garage when they get home. He doesn’t want to have to deal with interacting with people, right now, even if those people are Cas. 

He was silent and listless on the ride back, too tired to muster up a rant like he did after the last session, about Dr. Jorgensen’s stupid voice, stupid diplomas on the wall, stupid beard, and _what kind of a failure would he have to be to get shipped off to some backwater town in the middle of bumfuck Kansas, anyhow?_

Cas had asked if it had gone well, clearly concerned about Dean’s silence, but Dean just shrugged. Said it was fine. 

There’s a heaviness in his chest now, something that drags his center toward the ground, refuses to let him lift his arms or voice. It’s just a steady ache. Like _whatever_ can be the answer to any question. 

It’s always been there. He’s recognized it at multiple points in his life. Sometimes it’s worse than other times. Sometimes it sticks around for months on end. Lately it hasn’t shown any promise of leaving. And he supposes that’s what the shrink means when he says stuff like _depressed_ , even though Dean doesn’t really want to say it out loud yet. It’s just – he’s okay just mulling it over in his mind. There’s a quiet sort of solidity to it, he guesses, the idea that it has a name. That it’s been named by other people who have also felt it. 

So, he escapes Cas’s truck and goes to the garage, where he gets lost inside the engine of a 1950 Jaguar, one of the cars they stole from the bunker – even though it isn’t really steeling. Technically. Because whoever owned the car is long dead and seeing as he and Sammy are _legacies_ and all, he guesses that ownership more or less transfers over to them. 

And, oh well, Dean needs the money. 

He already fixed up a 1946 Buick Roadmaster and sold it for the down payment on the house. The guy he sold it to asked if he does restoration work, and Dean told him about the Impala, so now Dean’s got himself his first client. Turns out vintage cars can be a pretty lucrative racket. 

He’s always liked the calm of being buried in an engine. Engines are easy. Methodical. Like puzzles, but he’ll never admit to Sam that he actually enjoyed the rainy days when they were stuck inside a motel room and the only thing to do was put together an old jigsaw puzzle from the lobby. There’s a kind of blissful automation that takes hold of his body and mind when he’s working on a car. It’s like he can just disappear. Things make sense. 

Even the near-continuous tremor in his fingers stills a bit while he’s barreling down an engine with a wrench and a screwdriver. At least enough that he can ignore it. His hands are just as dexterous; things just take a couple extra seconds now, to straighten out, to make sure everything’s lined up okay. He has to maneuver around the brace on his dominant wrist, anyway. 

“Were you planning on eating lunch today?” Cas enters the garage, sounding wry, a little chastising. 

“In a second, Mom,” Dean answers from under the hood. 

“I’m not your mother,” Cas says, in that in-between tone of his that Dean can never parse out to be serious or just an incredibly dry and unfunny joke. 

“Then stop acting like it,” Dean snaps before he can stop himself. And he hadn’t even realized he was going for aggressive until he got there. It was like a switch just flipped. And shit. 

“Shit!” Dean echoes out loud when his left hand slips and he cuts his finger on an edge of sharp metal. “Fuck,” he says, slightly muffled this time because he’s stuffed his finger into his mouth to stop the bleeding, getting a mouth full of grease for his trouble. He can feel Cas’s eyes on the back of his head – practically sense the guy’s raised eyebrows like Cas is actually tearing Dean’s skin off, or something. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Cas says. He sounds unimpressed. Tetchy. And Dean fucking deserves it, because, after all, he’s been a dick to Cas this whole Goddamn day. 

Shit. 

Fuck. 

Dean slams the hood of the car so hard he shakes the entire frame. He remembers being twenty-seven, taking a tire iron to the trunk of the Impala, over and over and over.

And he doesn’t know where that comes from: the impulse to destroy. The need to take his anger and hurt other people. It’s been a while since he’s taken a swing at Sam, but sometimes he still wants to. Still wants to plow his fist into Cas’s face when he comes into the garage or into the bedroom with food and water, prompting him to take care of himself like Dean hasn’t been doing his Goddamn best for the past forty-one years in-between taking care of everyone else. 

He doesn’t blame his dad. That’s the problem. He’d have hit himself, too. He was a shit kid. Had it coming to him. And he understands the instinct to cause pain, to take someone by the shoulders and shake them until their teeth rattle because _don’t you get it, Dean? Don’t you fucking get it? You could have killed your brother. Your selfishness – your laziness – your inattention could have killed Sammy._

Like that time he screamed at Ben because the kid got into his guns. _You could have hurt yourself, don’t you see that? I try so Goddamn hard to protect you, and you’re screwing that up? You Goddamn piece of shit. Don’t you see that?_

Dean doesn’t know why he gets so angry. But it’s always been there. And he can’t stop it. He never used to be angry when he was a kid. That was always Sammy’s job. It was only after – _after Hell_ , a small, sinister voice whispers, and Dean knows it’s right. 

Hell taught him all about anger. About pain, about dealing it out, about accepting it, begging for it, not feeling whole without it. 

Dean sinks to the ground. His ass hits the hard concrete and his back falls against the back wheel. He dangles his hands between his knees and shuts his eyes. Just thinks about a drink. The cool, tingling wash of alcohol in his mouth. The burn down his throat. The buzz that starts up in the back of his head, right where his spine meets his skull. The numbness that takes over his body. And it’s not like he stops feeling entirely; it just makes everything just a little more bearable. 

“It’s obvious you’re upset,” Cas says. His voice is carefully measured, like he’s fighting the dual impulses to be annoyed at Dean and be sympathetic. 

Dean wishes he wouldn’t. Dean wishes Cas would quit trying to be so damn _gentle_ with him all the time. 

“I’m fucking fine,” Dean grits through his teeth. 

“No, you’re not,” Cas states. Days like this, Dean really hates the whole shrewd persona the guy caught on to because he used to be a whole lot easier to handle when he didn’t understand humanity. “I wish you’d just talk to me, Dean.” 

Cas takes a step closer. Dean keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to see Cas with his squinty blue eyes, the puppy dog droopiness that rivals Sam’s.

And, because Cas has always been harder to lie to than Sammy, Dean squares his jaw, takes a deep breath, and just says it before he can stop himself, “I’m sorry.” 

“For what, Dean?” Cas crouches at his side. He doesn’t touch him or anything, but Dean kind of wishes he’d put his hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry I’m so fucked up. That you have to deal with all my shit all the time. You deserve better.” 

“That isn’t something you need to apologize for,” Cas says levelly. “Besides, it’s untrue.” 

“I’m sorry I treat you like shit, then,” Dean says. He puts a hand to his head. He doesn’t really want Cas looking at him, now. He’s not angry anymore. He just feels tired. A little sick.

“I accept your apology,” Cas says. 

“You shouldn’t,” Dean breathes.

“That isn’t your choice,” Cas says firmly. “I love you, Dean. I want to help you.” 

_I love you. I love you, Dean_. Dean hates it. Something sharp twists in his chest, makes it a little harder to breathe. And he hates it. He doesn’t know what the fuck Cas means when he says it. He doesn’t know what the fuck Cas wants. What the fuck Cas expects of him. Because surely Cas knows – he knows that Dean – that Dean – but Dean can’t fucking –

The truth is, sometimes Dean doesn’t feel capable of loving anything. Sometimes everything feels so meaningless, so heavy and pointless, that he can’t imagine putting the effort into loving something. He _knows_ – by sheer reflex, by a rote, immoveable knowledge – that he loves Sam. He loves Cas and Jack but he doesn’t always feel that way. Truthfully sometimes he doesn’t feel anything. 

_Empty_ , Famine called him all those years ago. And it’s always been there. That feeling. That gaping nothingness inside of him. 

And that’s what he hates about it – whatever the fuck _this_ is – the depression shit, or whatever. Because it’s okay not to care about himself, but he needs to be able to care about his family. 

“Are you not hungry again?” Cas asks. And, shit, they’re back to the food thing. 

“I got sick again yesterday,” Dean says. Because Cas asked for fucking honesty. 

“After dinner?” Cas asks. He adjusts his legs into a more comfortable position – Dean can hear the shifting fabric of his jeans. Dean keeps his eyes shut; it’s always been easier to talk in the dark. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” 

Dean shrugs. 

“Have you eaten anything since?” 

Dean shrugs again. At this point he’s afraid Cas isn’t going to take the initiative to touch him, to take his hand or rub his shoulder and even scoot across the ground so they can sit side to side, so Dean takes another deep breath, leans over a little, nudges his shoulder against Cas’s. 

Cas gets the point, and the tight ball of anxiety in Dean’s stomach loosens a little: Cas drapes an arm over Dean’s shoulders, tugs Dean closer so Dean can nestle into him. And it’s okay. It’s okay. 

“Did you tell Dr. Jorgensen?”

“No,” Dean says. 

And he can tell, by the tension in Cas’s arm around his shoulders, by the slight stall of his breathing, that Cas is fighting back an annoyed reprimand, a slow, frustrated _Dean_. 

Dean beats him to it, “The drugs just make me feel like crap.” 

“You’re supposed to tell the doctor that, Dean,” Cas says calmly, but there’s an almost imperceptible tug of impatience behind his words. Like he’s explaining a simple concept to a two-year-old and the two-year-old refuses to understand. “He can make adjustments.” 

“They don’t fucking work, Cas.” 

“You’ve stopped hearing voices,” Cas says simply. “I think that’s an improvement.” 

Dean doesn’t reply. Because, sure, yeah. He doesn’t like to think too hard about that time last month where he went off the rails and started looking for a blade, anything to make the voices stop. And, yeah, whatever. He’s not seeing Alastair over his bed or around corners whenever he turns around anymore. He’s stopped spending every waking minute trying to figure out how he can get away with killing himself, making it look like an accident so he doesn’t hurt Sam, Cas, and Jack. 

But other things haven’t changed. He can still barely get out of bed most mornings. He’s so twisted up by anxiety that it’s a nearly constant ache in his core. 

And the whole drinking thing. The not drinking thing. 

The need is tangible: there’s a claw inside his belly, desperately grasping for a drop of alcohol, and because it can’t be satisfied, it takes to tearing up his insides, instead. 

Lately, he’s been thinking about other ways he could get high. Because the deal technically only extended to Dean staying away from booze, even though he knows Sam and Cas would quickly call him on bullshit if he tried anything else. 

Besides, he’s never fooled around with drugs a lot; it always felt riskier, somehow, the idea of being off his head on oxy, even pot, when he might have to head out on a hunt at a moment’s notice. He knows Sam smoked in college; he knows because he called Dean once or twice when he was stoned, just like Dean could only ever call Sam when he was drunk or out of his head on blood loss or some kind of venom. And Dean and Cassie fooled around with LSD a couple times. And Dean and Lee would sometimes smoke. Lee always liked it more than Dean did; it usually left Lee relaxed and mellow, but Dean always ended up panicked and paranoid. 

And it’s not like Dean couldn’t get his hands on something if he tried. Hell, he wouldn’t even have to try hard. He knows plenty about alleyways and dealers. Besides, Kansas back country thrived on drugs; it’s the local currency. 

Dean’s been silent for too long. He knows because he can feel the tension building in the quiet, the kind of silence that means Cas is going to start asking more uncomfortable questions, like _what did you talk about in session today that obviously upset you so much? Or would it be helpful to talk to Sam?_

“Krissy called the other day,” Dean says instead. She started the conversation with a _Hi, old man_ , so Dean knew it was her right away even though she’d gotten a different number. 

“The hunter’s daughter,” Cas says, and Dean remembers that Cas hasn’t met Krissy. “The one you saved?” 

Dean snorts, “She saved our asses, you mean. But yeah.”

“What did she want?”

“Help on a case,” Dean answers. What sounded like a couple ghouls in northern Nebraska. Dean was surprised to hear she was hunting on her own again.

_What happened to those two kids you were with? That Aiden douche and the other girl?_

_Aiden?_ Krissy snorted. _He bailed a long time ago for trade school, or something. And Josie – we, ah, we broke up._

_Oh,_ Dean replied, _sorry to hear it, kid. Didn’t know you were, you know…._

 _What?_ Krissy demanded, in a defensive tone Dean knew so well it was like it was rolling off his own tongue. _That I’m bisexual? Got an issue with it?_

_No issue,_ Dean said quickly. _Believe me, no issue._ And he was struck by the sudden, irrational notion to tell her that he was living with his ex-angel best friend, now, the one he talked to her about. Which was stupid because Dean didn’t tell people that. Dean didn’t even tell Sam that. Although his brother would have to be blind if he hadn’t figured it out by now. 

“What did you tell her?” Cas says, almost like he’s afraid. 

Dean puts him out of his misery, “I told her no. Hooked her up with Jody. Figured Claire might want the gig.” _You turning matchmaker in your old age?_ Jody had asked. 

“That must have been difficult,” Cas says carefully. 

Dean just shrugs again. It wasn’t the most difficult thing he’d ever done, saying no to a hunt. But it had felt more final than he’d realized. Actual solid proof that he was supposed to be done hunting. And it felt a little bit like a chunk of his body had been lifted outside of him, and now he was just staring at it, not sure what to do. Meanwhile, he was bleeding out of the wound, impossible to know what to stuff into it to make it stop feeling so hollow. 

_Heard a rumor that you two retired_ , Krissy told him. _After some big final act, or whatever. Can’t say I believed it, though._

Dean knew there would be rumors. He and Sam shifted the phones over to Jody’s line; so, it’s inevitable that the rest of the hunter network would eventually pick up on the fact that Sam and Dean weren’t in the field anymore. Luckily, Dean hasn’t had to deal with much of the fallout: the curiosity, the ribbing, the whatever else. 

It’s Sam who’s got the hunter contacts, anyway. Dean only knows Jody and her gang. And Bobby, of course. The other Bobby. Dean’s never been super comfortable around the guy. Every time he’s around, Dean’s forced to remember how unlike he is from their Bobby. Plus, it’s a little skeevy, the fact the guy was probably boning Mom.

So, Dean hasn’t had to directly confront the rumors before Krissy brought it up. And he’s happy to know that news of their retirement seems somewhat contained. Pretty vague.

No one but he, Cas, Jack, Sam, and Eileen know the full extent of what went down with Chuck. And only the five of them know what happened afterwards – the overdose, the hospital, the moving out of the bunker. 

Dean knows Sam didn’t tell a lot of people. He’s aware that Jody knows, because she texted him, just something simple, during the days when he was still too out of it to feel embarrassed: _Let me know if you need anything, kiddo_. If Jody knows, then it means Donna probably knows, too. And the girls. Which isn’t ideal, but at least they’re not making a big thing of it.

“Are we, ah, going to get off the ground?” Cas says tentatively. “It is rather uncomfortable.” 

Dean could make a joke about how they could do something that could make things a little more comfortable, but that’s just another way of reminding himself how he is fundamentally broken. So, instead, he just sighs. “Yeah, guess we should.” 

OOO

Dean can’t fall asleep that night. Which isn’t anything to write home about. He’s less frantic, at least, then he was the night before; he doesn’t feel like he needs to lay out the salt line again or check the warding. 

Instead, he just lies awake and stares at the ceiling, listens to Cas’s heavy, even breathing beside him. Feels the quiet warmth of his body. He tries to focus on the relaxation tips he got from his shrink or he picked up online, but nothing works. 

He hears Jack’s door open from down the hallway. So at least he knows he’s not the only one having a shit time in the dark. Misery loves company and all that crap. 

Dean gets out of bed carefully, making sure not to jog the mattress too hard and wake Cas up; he really doesn’t want to deal with Cas’s concern, right now. Not when Cas is already so worried. 

He walks silently down the stairs. He’s already memorized which ones creek. There isn’t really any necessary reason to be quiet, he’s just gotten used to walking with as little noise as possible, especially in the dark. 

He finds Jack bowed over his laptop at the dining room table, face illuminated by the blue light of the screen. The kid’s munching on a bowl of dried cereal, which is apparently his late-night snack of choice. 

“You’ll wreck your eyes like that, kid,” Dean says, and snaps on the light switch, which makes the lamp above the table flicker on. 

Jack nearly falls out of his chair. “I didn’t hear you!” he says defensively. 

Dean’s torn between being dismayed that it’s only taken Jack four months out of hunting for his reflexes to dull and relieved that maybe the kid can finally live a life where he doesn’t need to think about grabbing a gun every time he hears an unexpected noise. 

“Anything good on there?” Dean nods to the laptop, playing something that sounds like a fight scene with lots of swelling orchestral music. “Cuz I could show you a couple a’ good sites.”

“No, ah,” Jack’s face flushes. He clicks a key and the sound cuts off. “I’m watching Spiderman.” 

“Mmh,” Dean nods. He hooks a chair with his ankle and sits down. Jack looks a little taken aback at the company, but he doesn’t complain. “With great power comes great responsibility.” 

“What?” Jack’s eyebrows furrow in that distinctly Cas way that never fails to make Dean’s stomach squirm. Because the kid really is Cas’s spitting image. Uncanny really. It makes Dean think that Jack must have absorbed some of Cas’s – _being_ or whatever – when he was in utero and Cas was spending all that time with Kelly. 

Whatever. At least the kid doesn’t look like Lucifer. 

And it makes things easier: Jack looking like Cas. 

“Fucking remakes,” Dean says. “They take out all the good lines.” 

Jack doesn’t reply. He just sits there, looking a little like a deer in headlights, and Dean’s forced to remember that he hasn’t exactly spent a lot of one-on-one time with the kid, lately. It’s not like Dean still blames Jack for Mom’s death. He doesn’t. It’s just – 

It’s been easier to let Cas take the lead on Jack. Easier to let him deal with…whatever the kid needs dealt with. 

Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that Jack isn’t a fifteen-years-younger version of Sammy. Sometimes it’s hard to smother all those needling paternal-maternal-protective feelings that come up around the kid. Sometimes Dean just doesn’t feel like he can handle that – being Jack’s Dad, or second Dad, or whatever – on top of everything else. 

“So, you can’t sleep, huh?” Dean says. 

Jack shrugs. He’s not quite meeting Dean’s eyes – which is new for the kid, because that’s another thing he gets from Cas: alarmingly sincere and prolonged eye-contact. 

“I just wanted to finish the movie,” Jack hedges. “My headphones broke. I didn’t want to play it too loudly in my room so I came down here.” 

“Probably nice to get out of your room for a bit, anyway,” Dean says, keeping his eyes on Jack’s face. 

Jack ducks his head. “Yeah, sure,” he says. 

“You know you’re not, ah,” Dean hesitates. He doesn’t know how to do this shit. _Fathering_ or whatever. But, maybe it’s memories of his own childhood that make him unable to leave it unsaid. “You’re not trapped here, Jack. You can leave any time you want. Or go anywhere you want to. We’re your family, kid. We’ll always be there when you need us. Or if, you know, you wanna visit or something. But you don’t have to stick around with us all the time.” 

Jack abandons pretense and looks at his hands, starts picking at something on his palm. “I don’t know where I’d go,” he says in a small voice. 

“Or, you know,” Dean backpedals. “You don’t have to go. I didn’t mean for that to be like – a nudge out the door, or something.” 

There’s a pause. Just silence where Dean can hear the soft patter of the rain starting up again. Hear the whir of Jack’s laptop fan vibrate against the table. He and Cas stole the table from the bunker’s library – it’s the one with their initials carved in. Now there’s a “JK” and a “C” etched in below the others. 

Sam had protested that they should leave it in the bunker – a testament to their work, or something – but, for now, Dean wants it with him. Little taste of home. Besides, he can always drag it back another day. 

“I just think it might be good for you to find something to do,” Dean tries again, wincing at himself, because who the fuck is he to dole out life advice? “You know, get out of the house for a while. Stop spending so much time watching crappy superhero movies. Maybe find a few kids around to hang out with. Raise a little hell.” 

Jack tries for a smile. It falls flat. He keeps examining something on his hand. “I tried once,” he says quietly. “Making friends. It didn’t work very well.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Dean says, and wonders what Jack’s talking about – because it’s not like he’s had a lot of contact with people beyond hunters or monsters. And most of them end up dead. So, yeah. Didn’t work very well. 

“Yes,” Jack continues. “I was alone at the bunker. When I – well. You know.” Dean feels a drop of misgiving land in his stomach. Because he does know: when Jack didn’t have his soul. When he was as good as a sociopath. Jack plows onward. “I met a few of the kids in town. Max, Stacy, and Eliot. They were nice. They asked me to…hang out.” 

“What happened?” Dean says. He doesn’t even try to reach for a joke. He can tell wherever this is going isn’t good. And he’s never heard this story before – which most likely means Cas or Sam don’t know it, either. 

“I –” Jack swallows. “I showed them my – what I could do. And I…I made a mistake. She – Stacy,” Jack blinks furiously at his hand. Dean realizes abruptly that he’s never actually seen the kid cry before. Mostly he’s got that passive, stoic schtick that Cas has going on. “She stepped into – I stabbed her. I healed her, but – they told me they never wanted to see me again. I don’t blame them.” 

“Kid,” Dean says awkwardly, “it wasn’t your fault.” It tastes like a lie. Every Goddamn time he’s ever said it to someone. 

“I almost killed her,” Jack says. He finally looks up. His eyes are large and wet. He looks – damn. He looks like he’s about five-years-old and asking Dean to fix it. 

“You didn’t.” Dean’s throat is dry. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Jack shakes his head. “It’s just one more thing I messed up.”

Okay, yeah. That settles it. Jack has been spending way too much fucking time around Dean and Sam. Dean braces his elbows on the table. He leans forward. “Jack, listen to me. Yeah, you messed up. But you were able to fix it. Sure, you probably freaked them out – but –”

“But I wasn’t always able to fix it,” Jack looks devastated. Dean wants to get out of his chair and walk away. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. “I couldn’t fix that guard I killed. I couldn’t fix – I couldn’t fix Mary.” 

It hits like a blow to his solar plexus. Dean sucks in a sharp breath. 

“We’ve all messed up,” Dean says mercilessly. Because if he stops now, he’ll start thinking about Mom, and he won’t be able to start talking again. “But you can’t keep letting it eat you up inside, man. If you do that, then you’ll just end up –” Dean waves his hand vaguely. 

He’s not sure what he means. You’ll end up eating cereal at two o’clock in the morning. You’ll end up like Dean. 

“I don’t know how to make things better,” Jack says helplessly. 

“Listen,” Dean runs his tongue over his lips. “I can’t give you a self-help list, okay? But you gotta – all you can do is try. It’s shit. I know. But all you can do is try.” 

“Yeah,” Jack sighs. His shoulders fall. He breaks eye contact. Dean feels irrefutably like he’s failed. Like he should have said something else. Cas and Sam have always been a helluva lot better at the pep talk routine. 

“Does Cas know?” Dean asks. “About Stacy?”

“No,” Jack says quietly. 

Ridiculously, Dr. Jorgensen’s tagline floats through Dean’s head: _thank you for telling me_. Dean bites it back. 

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugs. “Their loss, man. If Cas and I let a little stab wound get in our way, we’d never have gotten to where we are now.” 

Jack looks up long enough for a weak smile. Then he sniffs loudly and wipes his sleeve across his eyes. Dean pretends he didn’t notice when he climbs out of his chair. But on his way to the kitchen, he claps Jack on the shoulder, squeezes firmly. 

“Come on,” he says. “Cereal’s a shitty midnight snack. I’m making hot chocolate.” 

Dean feels Jack’s eyes follow him into the adjoining kitchen. Dean pulls out a pot and turns on the stove. Gas, not electric, because only pussies use electric stoves. Then he heads to the fridge for a jug of milk – he might have had to raise Sammy on hot chocolate made with water, because they never had the money for fresh milk, but Dean will be damned if he denies himself the luxury, now. 

His hands shake, and it’s difficult to juggle the jug with his right hand in the wrist brace, so he has to balance it on the edge of the pot so he doesn’t spill, but he gets past it without too much frustration. 

Then Jack asks from the dining room, “If I consider Cas my father, what does that make you?” 

“Um, what?” Dean sputters. He nearly drops the spoon he’d been using to mix the milk in the pot. 

“Because you and Cas are…” clearly the kid’s having difficulties finding the right word. It’s a comfort, at least, to know Dean has that in common with someone. “So that would make you my stepfather?” Jack says. 

“Ah – technically we’d – ah,” Dean doesn’t know what to say. He feels his face warming.

“And that would make Sam my uncle,” Jack says, nodding decisively. Looking way too proud of himself. 

Dean’s saved from answer when Cas, himself, clears his throat from the base of the stairs. Jack isn’t the only one getting rusty, because Dean nearly jumps out of his skin, and he immediately wonders whether Cas just heard that conversation. 

“Sleep is an integral part of human health,” Cas reminds them gravely, but the frown on his face doesn’t quite look genuine. 

“Yeah?” Dean says, raising his eyebrow, and he busies himself with scooping chocolate powder into the warming milk. “Well so is hot chocolate. So, get your ass in here and help me find those mini marshmallows I bought.”


	4. Chapter 4

The next day feels better. After hot chocolate, Dean managed five and a half hours of undisturbed sleep. Then he finished up the Jaguar, puttered around the house for a while – sanding down the walls of the living room, because Cas had got it into his head that they were well and truly domestic, now, so that meant they needed to paint the walls – and then, because it was still rainy and cold, he made chili and cornbread for dinner. 

At a little after nine, while watching another superhero movie Jack dragged them downstairs for, Dean gets a text from Eileen: _is Sam with you?_

The wave of panic that washes over him is immediate and instinctual. He peels away from Cas on the couch, sitting ramrod straight. Dean struggles hard to steady the tremor in his fingers as he fumbles out a response to her: _he’s not. What’s wrong?_

_He left a couple hours ago._ Eileen responds after a second. 

“Dean, what’s wrong?” Cas asks. Jack pauses the movie. 

Eileen is still typing. Dean stares at the little box with three dots and there’s something in his throat. Something in his throat and he can’t breathe. And he wants to call Eileen – he wants to call her except he can’t because she can’t hear and they could FaceTime, but he can’t use sign language because the antipsychotics make his hands shake too much, and Sam is missing – Sam is fucking missing – 

_If he gets there tell him he’s a dick. And a fucking coward._

“Dean?” Cas insists. 

Dean just blinks at Eileen’s text, not understanding –

“Who is it?” Cas says. 

_What happened?_ Dean manages to thumb out. 

_He’ll have to tell you_ , Eileen responds. Dean tries to calm down. He tries to tell himself that Eileen is obviously pissed. She’s not worried. Sammy’s okay. She’s not worried. She’s not – Sam’s not – 

_Missing. Missing. Dead. Fucking Dead. There’s blood. Too much blood. He won’t – he won’t – he can’t –_

“Dean,” Cas says sharply, and snatches the phone out of Dean’s hands, because by now he’s shaking so hard he’s surprised he hasn’t dropped it. “Look at me,” Cas reaches for Dean’s cheek. His palm lands there, guides Dean’s face toward his. “Breathe, Dean.” 

And Dean breathes. He tries to breathe. 

“Call Sam,” he chokes. He can’t do it. Right now, he can’t do it. But he needs Cas to fucking – 

Cas looks at the messages on Dean’s screen, brow wrinkled. Then he does what Dean asked and calls Sam, puts the phone to his ear while it rings, and Dean breathes. Tries to fucking breathe as the phone rings once, twice, three times, four times, goes to Sam’s voicemail: _It’s Sam. Leave a message._

Dean’s stomach drops. He’s on his feet, and his body can’t quite keep up, because his brain pulses with dizziness, and then he tips back toward the couch, but Cas catches him. 

“Calm down, Dean,” Cas says. 

Dean can’t. He can’t calm down. He needs to find Sammy. He needs to – needs – 

“We have to go after him,” Dean says. His throat is tight. Closing in on him. Everything is closing in on him. Sammy is missing. Sammy is dead. Sammy can’t be dead. 

“They had a fight, Dean,” Cas continues logically. “It sounds like they simply had a fight.” 

“Cas, I have to –” Dean says. And fuck this. Fuck. He can’t stop shaking. “I can’t fucking drive, Cas. And I need – I need to go find –”

“I’ll find him,” Cas says quickly. 

Dean yanks his hands out of Cas’s grip. He takes two steps across the floor toward the front door, but then Cas is back in front of him. Cas’s hands are up at shoulder-level, like he’s trying to look unthreatening – and Dean doesn’t get it – because it’s not like Dean’s going to throw a punch or something –

But then Dean realizes both his hands are balled into fists at his side. 

“Calm down,” Cas says again. This time, something about it slips into Dean’s head. Distantly, he can feel Jack’s wary eyes on him, and he wants to disappear. By now he’s fallen apart in front of Cas enough time that it’s old hat. But he’ll never be comfortable freaking out in front of the kid. 

“I’m sure Sam’s okay,” Cas says. 

“I’ll call Eileen to see if she’ll tell me what happened,” Cas continues. 

“I’ll go look for Sam,” Cas says. 

“But she seemed to think he’ll come here,” Cas reaches for Dean’s hand again. Dean lets him take it. “You should stay here in case he shows up, alright?” 

Dean swallows once, twice. Tries to say _alright_. But he just nods. 

“I’ll call you if I find him,” Cas says. Then he leans forward, presses his lips to Dean’s – and it’s so casual and natural – just a soft peck. Something like – something that they haven’t really gotten used to doing, yet, in between all the other crap. 

And Dean’s so startled he chokes, “Alright,” as soon as Cas steps back from him. 

Cas gives him a reassuring smile, squeezes his hand before letting go, and then leaves to get his shoes and jacket. 

Dean takes a couple deep breathes. His heart doesn’t stop hammering against his ribs, but at least he doesn’t feel so light-headed and untethered, anymore. 

He turns to meet Jack’s wide-eyed, confused gaze, and Dean realizes that Jack is even more out of the loop than the rest of them, because at least Dean and Cas got to read Eileen’s messages. 

“It’s – um – okay,” Dean says lamely. “Cas is gonna go get Sam.” 

“Yeah,” Jack nods. “I’m, ah,” he looks around pointlessly, ends up putting down the TV remote he’s still holding. Then he stands up. “I’m gonna go make more of that hot chocolate.” 

And Dean is suddenly struck with a wave of affection so strong for the kid that he could cry. But he doesn’t. Instead he drops back onto the couch, shuts his eyes, and tries to resist the urge to take his knuckles into his mouth and bite until he draws blood. 

OOO

Dean can’t sit still for long. He paces a rut into the floor for nearly another two hours, texting Cas every ten minutes with another place he should look for Sam: bars, parks, the bunker, the fucking grocery store. 

He was calling Sam every five minutes, but he stopped after Eileen texted him to let him know that Sam had left his phone at the apartment. She added, _Cas called. I’m sorry I worried you. We had a fight. Sam was upset. I don’t think he’s in danger._

Which, by now, four hours into no contact, Dean isn’t taking a whole lot of comfort in. 

Dean’s about to head for the Impala, drugs be damned, and set out on his own search party, when there’s the sound of shuffling on the front porch, and then a rapid, sloppy series of knocks on the door. 

Dean didn’t hear a car. So, it can’t be Sam unless something happened to his wheels. And it can’t be a monster, because if it was a monster, they wouldn’t have bothered with knocking. So maybe it’s a demon with a fucking ransom note who couldn’t get past the fucking warding – 

Dean tugs the door open, shot gun in hand that he immediately wrestled from the cabinet under the stairs, and then Sam trips forward over the threshold, and collapses into Dean’s arms. 

Dean hadn’t been expecting the sudden weight, so he staggers backward, hits the closet door, but manages to keep both himself and his brother on their feet. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dean yelps, nearly yells, but his heart is pounding so hard inside his head he can’t even hear himself. 

Sam is soaked. His hair is straggly and stuck to his face. His skin is pale. His eyes are red. He’s holding a bottle in his right hand; his left is curled into a tight fist. 

“Oh God,” Sam gasps. He shudders. “Dean, I –” he gulps twice, can’t focus on Dean’s face. “I left. I fucking – I just left – I –”

It takes Dean a minute to register Sam’s words, a minute to comprehend that his little brother is quite literally sobbing uncontrollably in Dean’s arms, because for a shameful, terrible minute all Dean can focus on is the fact that Sam is out of his skull drunk. And Dean can smell the whiskey on his breath. He can smell it so strongly it’s like he can taste it. He can fucking taste it. 

Dean shuts his eyes. He swallows. He breathes. Just breathes. Because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Dean’s not thinking about the bottle. The bottle in Sam’s hand that may or may not be empty. Dean’s not thinking about the fact that this is the closest he’s been to alcohol for a fucking month – 

Sammy needs him. Sammy’s hurt or – or something – Sammy’s crying and Sammy needs him. 

“Jack,” Dean grunts, and the kid is already tripping toward him. “Help me get him to the couch.” 

Dean takes one arm and Jack takes the other. Together, they drag Sam across the floor, because apparently he’s forgotten how to work his legs. They dump him unceremoniously on the couch. 

Sam lolls, nearly convulsing, he’s crying and shivering so hard, and Dean hasn’t seen Sam like this since he was maybe five years old and Dad stumbled into their motel room covered head to toe in blood and Sammy just started _wailing_. It makes something cold tighten like a fist inside Dean’s belly. He doesn’t know how to fix this. 

Dean starts by grabbing the bottle out of Sam’s hands. He can’t help his hands from shaking around its neck. And it’s full. Like maybe half-way full. Fuck. 

_Fuck._

He puts it on the floor. 

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean prompts. _Calm down,_ he coaches himself silently. _Just breathe. He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s okay._ “Calm down. You’re okay.” 

“I left –” Sam stammers. “I just walked out – I – I told her I wouldn’t – I can’t – Dean, I can’t –”

“Take a deep breath for me, Gigantor,” Dean says. He tosses over his shoulder to Jack, “Tell Cas we’ve got him.”

“Right,” Jack says, and takes his phone to the kitchen, probably grateful for a chance to leave the room. 

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean says again. He puts his right hand on Sam’s abdomen. He can feel his brother’s heartbeat, jackhammering through his chest. He has to cross his left hand awkwardly across his body so he can ply open Sam’s left hand, because he can’t maneuver his right with the brace, but he knows what Sammy’s doing: he can already see red crescent moons where his brother’s dug his nails into his palm.

“This is real,” Dean says, keeping his voice low and level. He replaces Sam’s fingernails with the pad of his own thumb, just gives him gentle, steady pressure on his palm. “You’re right here with me, buddy. Right here. Come on, take that breath for me.” 

Sam pulls in a desperate, shuddering breath of air. It trips up his throat, gushes out in another sob. 

“Shhh,” Dean says. He rubs his hand slowly across Sam’s sternum, pressing firm. “That’s it, Sammy. You wanna do that again?”

Sam takes another deep breath. This one comes a little easier. 

Dean takes his eyes away from his little brother long enough to address Jack again. “Grab some towels and a blanket, will you?” Jack nods and speeds off without a word. 

Dean turns to Sam again, offers him a smile. “Gotta dry you off. Man, you’re soaked.” 

“W-walked,” Sam says between chattering teeth. He’s not quite so out of control anymore, but there are still tears spilling down his face as well as residual rain water. 

“All the way from Esbon?” Dean says. “Dude, that’s like fourteen miles!” 

“N-no,” Sam says. He sniffs, chokes on a sob again. Dean keeps rubbing his chest. “From – from J-Jackson’s.” 

“Okay, okay, man,” Dean says. And he supposes four miles in the pouring rain is better than fourteen. “Let’s get you warmed up.” 

Jack stumbles back with the towels and blanket. Dean eases Sam forward to strip off his jacket. The fabric sticks to his wet skin. Dean wraps a towel around his shoulders. Sam’s cold to the touch and shivering. 

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Dean asks. 

“N-no,” Sam says. And then he starts crying again, just small, desperate pants that rattle through his entire body. 

“Okay, okay, shhh,” Dean says. This is okay. This is fine. Dean’s done this a million times. Climbed into Sam’s crib when he was a baby. Put band-aids on his skinned knees. Vowed to beat up bullies when he found Sammy sobbing behind the elementary school gym. “Hey, knock, knock, kid,” Dean tries, taking the other towel and rubbing it down Sammy’s drenched hair. 

“I fucked up,” Sam croaked. “I – I messed it up, Dean.” 

“The only thing you’re messing up right now is my punchline,” Dean says sternly. He starts off on Sam’s soaked sneakers. He curses under his breath when he fumbles with the laces, fingers too unsteady to work properly. He eventually works open the knot and tugs off both Sam’s shoes, next comes the socks. 

“God, your feet stink,” Dean remarks. 

Sam only sobs. Does one of those back of the hand to his forehead like a distressed maiden and, shit, yeah, the guy is drunk. 

“Alright, man,” Dean remarks. “Shuck the pants. You’re soaked.” Sammy moves immediately, like he’s regressed to a point in the past where Dean used to actually get away with bossing him around. Sam undoes his belt buckle and fly, then shimmies out of his jeans until they get all bunches up and caught on his long-ass legs. He looks so pathetic, Dean takes pity on him and drags his pants the rest of the way off. 

Then Dean takes the towel and wipes down Sam’s legs. He spreads the blanket over his lap. 

“Gonna get you warmed up,” Dean keeps spewing nonsense, maybe to distract himself from the wounded-animal sounds Sam’s making for than to distract Sam. “Sober you up with some coffee. Then you can sleep it off, alright? Call Eileen in the morning. You can work it out.” 

At the sound of Eileen’s name, Sam hiccups pitifully. “I messed it up,” he moans again. “I – I told her to get rid of it. I m-messed it up.” 

“Sure you did,” Dean says, and musters a smile. “You’re my kid brother. The big fuck up. Man, you’re so messed up, Eileen will take one look at you and be powerless to do anything but take you into her arms and kiss you stupid.” 

Sam’s breath hitches. He tilts to the side, and Dean just lets him fall over, because he doesn’t look like he’s any immediate danger of swallowing his tongue or throwing up. He’s just shitfaced. Sam lands with his face in the couch seat. His shoulders shake under the towel; Dean’s not sure if it’s with renewed tears or just the cold. 

Dean stands from his crouch, and he immediately regrets moving too quickly as the room spins around him. 

“Shit,” he hisses, waiting for the momentary vertigo to pass. He blinks several times, then beelines for the kitchen. 

Jack is standing in the kitchen, holding his phone and looking uncertain. “Cas is on his way back,” he says. 

“Cool,” Dean replies. He busies himself with making coffee for Sam, occasionally craning his neck over the counter to look through the dining room to the couch, just to make sure Sam’s still moving; the kid’s stopped making noise by now. It’s possible he’s sleeping, but as long as he keeps breathing, everything’s A-Okay. 

Dean finishes brewing the mug of coffee and brings it back to the living room, hissing once when the tremor in his hand makes him drip scalding liquid down his fingers. He sets the mug down on the side table before sitting beside Sam on the couch. 

He grabs hold of Sam’s arm and hauls him back into a sitting position. Sam’s chin drops toward his chest and he mumbles something that sounds like, “gerroff,” but Dean persists. 

“Open up, big boy,” Dean announces, bringing the lip of the mug to Sam’s mouth. “Down the hatch.”

He tips the coffee down Sam’s throat. Sam gags, sputters, most of the coffee ends up dribbling down his chin and onto his lap, but his eyes snap back open. 

“Come on, here comes the airplane and all that jazz,” Dean says, tipping the coffee forward again. Sam is slightly more successful at swallowing this time.

His little brother’s pliancy lasts for two more swigs before he finally becomes aware enough of what’s happening for him to raise a clumsy hand and shove at the mug. “Fucking – get off,” he groans. 

“Hey, easy, slugger,” Dean says. “Don’t hit the cripple.” He raises the brace on his right wrist as evidence, but Sam seems to be having trouble focusing on anything, right now. 

The front door slams open. Dean’s still so keyed up, he swivels so fast in his seat he cricks his neck. Cas barges through the doorway, soaked almost as badly as Sam had been, and drips there on the threshold, wild-eyed and panting. 

“He’s okay?” Cas says immediately. His eyes fall on Sam beside Dean, who hasn’t so much as stirred at the disturbance, and Cas’s shoulders drop in relief before Dean can even answer. 

“Just drunk,” Dean replies with a tight smile. “Always was a fucking lightweight.” 

Cas sighs, gives Dean a wobbly smile, and a little bit of the tension that’s been locked in Dean’s chest since he first got Eileen’s text melts away; because at least Cas was worried, too. And at least Sam’s okay. 

“Kay, bitch,” Dean says. He grabs hold of Sam’s arm again, but this time he tugs him upward. “Lets get you to bed.”

“J-jerk,” Sam slurs. “You’re a – jerk.”

“Sure, kid,” Dean says. He manages to get to his feet, but pulling up Sam with him proves to be a more difficult challenge – he’s saved from overbalancing when Cas rushes forward to grab Sam’s other arm. 

“Cas?” Sam says blurrily. 

“Hello, Sam,” Cas says levelly. 

“Messed up,” Sam tells Cas sadly. 

“Yes,” Cas replies. “Eileen does appear to be upset with you.” 

Which is definitely the wrong thing to say, because Sam’s face crumples again. “Threw – threw me out,” he stammers. “Said g-get the fuck out and I – I did.” 

“Come on, princess,” Dean prompts. “You can cry about it some more into your pillow.” 

Getting Sam’s considerable height safely up the stairs without any head injuries or thrown-out backs is difficult. It’s a narrow flight of stairs, and the steps must have been spaced by someone who was half-blind, but they eventually manage it with Dean leading the way, Sam in the middle, and Cas in the rear. They shuffle awkwardly sideways up the stairs, Sam tripping over his ridiculously large feet and the blanket that’s replaced the towel around his shoulders. 

Dean and Cas practically have to drag Sam down the hallway, and in the end they all but dump him on the mattress in the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. Dean bends over to rearrange Sam’s long legs into rescue position, making sure to prop him on his side in case he gets sick in the middle of the night. 

Sam sprawls sloppily across the mattress, reaches with clumsy hand for one of the pillows and tugs it to his chest, maybe to take Dean’s advice and continue to cry into it. 

Sam looks so ridiculously like he did when he was a toddler that Dean feels a pang of hurt in the center of his chest. Sam used to hug this stupid stuffed dog in bed all the time, carried it everywhere he went, cried himself sick when Dean accidentally forgot it at one of their motels. 

Dean takes advantage of the painful bout of nostalgia to keep himself moving. He crosses the room to where they keep extra blankets in the closet – grabs a couple and busies himself with tucking them around Sam’s body. Sam’s chest is rising and falling evenly; he might be asleep, except he keeps muttering “M sorry,” over and over again, and Dean isn’t entirely sure if he’s talking to Dean or Eileen. 

Cas watches from the open doorway, having retreated to allow Dean space to tend his little brother, and Dean’s grateful. Now, Dean straightens up, after ridiculously brushing Sam’s hair out of his face, and looks at Cas. 

“He’s alright, Dean,” Cas says. 

Dean breathes before answering. “I know.” 

“Will you stay in here tonight?” Cas asks, like he already knows the answer, and Dean’s so infinitely thankful that his throat goes suddenly taught. 

“Yeah,” Dean manages weakly. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

Cas smiles knowingly. “Of course.” 

Cas looks at Dean, forehead wrinkled, like there’s something he’s trying to puzzle out, and just when it’s starting to get uncomfortable, Cas takes two paces into the room and gathers Dean into a hug. 

Cas presses his lips to Dean’s mouth, so quickly Dean nearly misses it, and it’s the second time this night that Cas has kissed him so casually, and Dean hasn’t really minded it – and then he’s just holding him, chin on his shoulder, arms steady around his waist. 

“I love you,” Cas says. 

Dean shuts his eyes. There’s still a tight ball in his chest, elastic taught like it might snap at any moment, but it doesn’t get any tighter. And Sam’s _right there_. Snoring softly and lost to the world. And Dean can’t bring himself to care, because right now this feels okay: Cas’s arms around him, fingers on the back of his head, cheek to cheek. This is okay. 

Dean breathes. On his exhale he thinks _love you_ , but it catches in his throat. Not for the first time, he wishes Cas could still hear prayers. 

“You’re sopping wet, man,” Dean grumbles into Cas’s shoulder. 

Cas releases Dean, backs up by a half-step, and smiles. “Yes, I think I’ll shower,” he says, wrinkling his nose. 

“Sounds like a good plan,” Dean says. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas says. He pauses with a hand on the door jamb. “Come get me if you need anything.”

“I will,” Dean says. “Night, Cas.” 

Dean watches Cas walk down the hallway and peel off into the bathroom. A minute later, he hears the pipes rattle as Cas gets into the shower. 

Then Dean turns back to his brother on the bed. He snaps off the light before making his way to the only other pieces of furniture in the guestroom besides the bed: one of the old La-Z-Boys from the TV room in the bunker. 

It’s not like there’s not plenty of room on the bed for Dean to share with Sam, not like they haven’t shared beds plenty of times before. But Dean doesn’t want to risk disturbing Sam’s sleep if he wakes up from one of his nightmares or in the middle of a flashback. Besides, there’s always the chance Sam will roll over in his sleep and throw up on Dean’s face, or something. 

Dean sits still in the dark for a while, elbows braced on his knees, and waits for his eyes to adjust in the dark well enough to make out Sam’s bulky shape and pale face. Then Dean waits for his heartbeat to slow. 

“Scared the shit out of me, man,” Dean says, ignoring how unsteady his voice is, because it’s not like Sam will notice. 

And then Dean thinks about the half-empty whiskey bottle downstairs. He knows for a fact that Cas overlooked it in his haste to help Dean get Sam up the stairs. He knows it’s still down there. He knows….and it’s not like anyone’s watching. Because Jack is in his room, and Cas is in the shower. 

No one would know. Dean wouldn’t have to tell them – 

Dean clenches his teeth, hard enough to hurt his jaw. He wants it. There’s a yawning, desperate pit inside of his stomach, a sultry voice whispering in his ear that it will help. It will make everything go away again. And isn’t that what he wants? He wants it all to go away. Go back to the way things were. When he could drown out the nightmares and panic attacks with a couple slugs of whiskey. And he didn’t have to spend every day so wrapped up in tension and anxiety that he’s giving himself back spasms, can’t stop his hands from shaking – and – 

And no one’s watching. No one’s there to stop him. 

After a while longer, Dean final pops up the footrest on the chair and levels the back out, then he curls into as comfortable position as he can find, and tries to get a little sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

It isn’t exactly a restful night. Sam wakes up in the middle of it to puke; thankfully, Dean gets there in time with a trashcan. And then Dean’s sleep is spotted with uneasy, indiscernible nightmares. 

Finally, Dean wakes with the echo of rattling chains in his ears, and when he rockets into a sitting position it takes him a second to figure out where he is: in the guest room, curled into an awkward position in a chair. There’s a crick in his neck, and Sammy’s still sleeping. Dean lets the familiar sound of his little brother’s steady breathing ease his rapid heartbeat. 

He looks at his watch and sees that it’s early enough to get down to the kitchen and make Sam a hangover cure breakfast. He peels himself off the chair, back protesting the awkward sleeping position, and then his bad knee almost buckles when he finally works himself onto his feet. God, it’s always the mornings that make him feel like an old man. 

His and Cas’s bedroom door is closed at the end of the hall, so Dean knows Cas isn’t awake yet. Dean makes his way downstairs, carefully maneuvering around the creaking steps. 

He walks into the kitchen. And then he keeps walking. Through the dining room and into the living room. And yeah. The whiskey bottle is still there. 

Dean could just leave it. He could just go back into the kitchen and make breakfast and in an hour or two Cas will come down; he’ll find the bottle and get rid of it. Or Dean could just get rid of it now. He could just take the four strides to the couch, bend to grab it from the floor, cross back through to the kitchen, pour out the leftover whiskey into the sink. Toss the bottle into the recycling bin Cas insists they keep beside the trash. 

It would be easy. Totally manageable. Save Cas the bother. 

Dean is so fucking weak. 

He has defeated demons, sent ghosts into the afterlife, killed Death, stared down God, himself. 

He can’t stop thinking about the fucking whiskey. 

And why the fuck should he? He thinks with a surge of anger. He was never the one who wanted to detox. He didn’t need to fucking detox. That was on Cas and Sam – just Cas and Sam being needlessly worried. Dean doesn’t have a fucking problem. Dean was fine. Perfectly fucking fine. 

_Shit._

Dean tastes blood in his mouth. Without realizing it, he’s bitten his lip so hard he broke skin. 

Dean swallows. The rest of the house is still entirely silently. No one would fucking know – 

Dean crosses the last three steps to the couch, snatches hold of the bottle. He’s at the sink before he pauses to look at the bottle. The glass is warm under his palm. One swallow wouldn’t hurt. One swallow would probably help. Make things a little clearer. Make it a little easier for his mind to stay in one place. Stop wandering when he’s trying to take care of Sammy. Trying to just make fucking breakfast. 

And if he took one swallow, he could stop thinking about the bottle. Just one taste. Just to – to prove to himself he could handle it. 

Dean feels sick. Like those times with the First Blade. When the Blade’s unsatiated bloodlust resulted in Dean coughing out coffee ground clotted blood. 

He takes a deep breath. Sets the bottle on the counter. 

Then he turns around to grab the carton of eggs out of the fridge. He busies himself with making breakfast, accidently burns himself on the skillet, pours coffee on the counter. Nearly hurls the plate at the wall in frustration.

Sets the bottle in the back of the cabinet next to the stove, where they keep the large pot for soup or pasta. And Cas never really goes into that cabinet because Dean’s the one who’s been cooking recently, and when Cas does make dinner, he usually makes sandwiches because that’s the only thing he can reliably make without messing it up. 

Then Dean plates Sam’s breakfast – eggs and toast and he even cuts up one of the stupid apples Cas bought and insists Dean should eat. 

He manages to carry the plate and a mug of coffee up the stairs without spilling anything. His hands are weirdly steady. It’s like the adrenaline from the last few minutes have left him deadly still. Braced for attack. All his old fight or flight instincts kicking in. 

Like a little kid afraid he’s going to be caught out by his parents, Dean looks over his shoulder to make sure Cas’s door is still shut. It is. Then he hurries back to the guest room, shoulders open the door, and finds Sam stirring. 

“Gonna hurl again?” Dean asks by way of greeting. 

“Fuck you,” Sam grunts in reply, turning to burry his face into his pillow. 

“Dragged your sorry ass into bed last night and this is the thanks I get?” Dean says. He perches on the edge of his chair, waits for Sammy to say something, and when he doesn’t, continues, “Up and at ‘em, Sammy. I’m gonna eat your breakfast.” 

Sam groans again. Dean shrugs and picks up one of the slices of toast. “Suit yourself,” he says before taking a bite. He isn’t really hungry, but he’ll do anything to get a rise out of his brother right now. 

Sam weakly lifts his head at the sound of the crunching toast. His face is still pale. He’s squinting around what must be a helluva headache. “You’re not helping,” he says. 

Dean shrugs again, infinitely more satisfying now that Sam actually sees him. He swallows his bite of toast and then informs Sam, “Eileen says, quote, you’re a dick and a fucking coward, unquote.”

Sam’s face falls so quickly, Dean almost regrets bringing it up. Painstakingly, Sam levers himself onto his elbows, flips over onto his back, and then shoves himself into a sitting position. He lets his long legs fall over the side of the bed, then he brackets his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. 

“I didn’t tell you anything last night?” Sam asks, and Dean isn’t entirely sure if his little brother is hoping the answer to the question is _yes_ , so he doesn’t have to explain it all again, or _no_ , so he can make up some kind of lie, now. 

“You were pretty out of it,” Dean says. 

Sam moans into his hands. “Shit. Sorry.” 

“Don’t, man,” Dean says quickly. “You scraped my ass off the floor plenty of times before. Consider it payback.” And Dean doesn’t think about the half bottle of whiskey he hid in the kitchen. He doesn’t think about it because – because it’s not like he’s going to – 

Sam’s still silently staring at the floor. Dean takes pity on him and transfers from the chair to the bed, bringing the plate and mug with him. 

“Here,” he prompts, stuffing the coffee into his brother’s hands. Sam finally looks up, grasping the mug on instinct. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles. He takes a sip of the coffee, winces because Dean didn’t cut it with any milk or sugar, but swallows it down. Then Sam looks at the plate, catches sight of the apples, and cocks an eyebrow at Dean. 

“What?” Dean protests. “Gotta get rid of them somehow.” 

Sam huffs out a laugh, then picks up a slice, stuffs it into his mouth, and doesn’t actually look like he’s going to throw up again, so that’s a plus. 

“This Cas’s room?” Sam says, looking around at the bare walls and sparse furniture. Dean’s stomach squirms. Because this little confrontation was supposed to be about Sam. Not about Dean. Definitely not about the fact that Dean and Cas have been sharing a bed for a month, now, and Sam still somehow doesn’t know that. Despite the fact that he and Eileen helped them move in, that they’ve been over a couple times for dinner. It isn’t exactly that Dean’s been hiding it from Sam; it’s just that it’s never really come up. 

“Ah,” Dean says stupidly. “Guest room,” he eventually coughs out when Sam turns with another raised eyebrow. 

For a second there’s confusion on Sam’s face as Dean’s words struggle to penetrate his overly-large and very hungover super brain. Then Sam’s eyes widen and his mouth drops and – 

Shit. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Because Dean’s gotten so used to sharing a bed with Cas that he actually forgot that Sam might not understand that Dean – that Dean’s shared a bed with guys, ah, several times actually – because it’s not like he’s ever, like, _come out_ to his brother before because there was never anything to _come out_ of, really, because it’s not like Dean’s _gay_ or – or –

Well, Cas called it _bisexual_ that one time Dean and Cas actually talked about it before sleeping in the same bed and making out just became a normal thing they did. And that’s what Krissy called it, too. When she asked Dean about the hunt and got all defensive. Like it was normal. Totally normal and she’d kick Dean’s ass if he said anything against it. 

“That’s, ah, great man,” Sam sputters.

“What?” Dean snaps, reacting too quickly, so he hasn’t fully registered what Sam – 

Now Sam looks panicked. “I mean – great that you have a guest room –” he corrects himself. 

“What?” Dean says again. Because – _what?_

“And great about the other thing, too,” Sam blurts out, looking, if possible, more panicked. “Great about – you and Cas, I mean. Like – great that you guys clearly, ah, talked it out and stuff. Awesome, really.” 

“Oh,” Dean breathes. _Oh._ And it’s like something just melts inside his chest. Embarrassing, warm, and gooey. Because it’s not like Dean every worried that Sam would _care_ – not like he ever worried that Sam might have – because Dad had obviously cared and Mom – Dean never got to talk about that shit with Mom. But she’d been around in the 80s, yanno, with the whole AIDS scare and everything. Even though she’d technically been a 70s child, so maybe – but Dad had obviously cared but Sam obviously _doesn’t_. In fact, it seems like maybe Sam _already knew_. Which is a relief and a half, really, because it’s just one less thing Dean will have to talk about. 

“Thanks,” Dean says, and his throat weirdly hurts. 

Sam’s smile is swift but fleeting. “No problem,” he says. And then he’s back to looking like a kicked puppy. 

Dean takes a minute to breathe through the ache in the center of his chest, the rampant relief that’s made his hands start shaking again. He puts Sam’s breakfast behind him on the bed before he drops it on the floor again. Then he turns back to the front and nudges Sam’s shoulder with his elbow. 

“So, what about you?” he says. “Wanna tell me why you’re a dick and a coward? I mean, not like that’s new information, but…” 

Sam makes a noise that’s so weak and strangled Dean couldn’t imagine calling it a laugh. “I ran out on her,” Sam whispers. 

“I gathered that much,” Dean replies. Maybe he’s being a little bit of a jerk, but as a big brother, that’s his prerogative. 

“I was stupid,” Sam continues. 

“That chic’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” Dean says. “You can’t just throw that away, man. I won’t let you.” 

Sam looks over at Dean and, yep. Fuck. He’s crying again. Not sobbing like last night, just the typical Sammy kind of weepy eyes and puppy-dog woe. “I don’t know what to do, Dean.” 

Dean has the sudden, ridiculous urge to put his arm around Sam’s shoulders. Dean doesn’t do touchy-feely. It must be all the time he’s been spending with Cas – Cas with his casual touches to the back of Dean’s neck, his shoulder, pecking him on the lips all domestic, and shit. 

“Eileen is,” Sam gulps. He raises a shaking hand to his face and swipes at his eyes. “She’s –” he tries again, but Dean feels something cold and rock-hard slink into his gut, and he really doesn’t need Sam to say it. 

“P-pregnant.” 

It’s silent for a minute, filled up with Sam’s ragged breathing. Dean doesn’t know what to say.

“Oh, wow,” he says. “Congratulations,” even though he knows right now is hardly the time for _congratulations_. 

“I told her to get rid of it,” Sam says to the floor, voice unsteady. “She told me to get out. T-told me that – that if I didn’t w-want – then I didn’t have to stick around. But she’d made up her mind.” 

Sam looks up. His eyes are wide. Red and tear-filled. Dean feels like someone’s systematically scooping out pieces of his heart, and he doesn’t know how he can make things better for his little brother. How to deal with this totally unforeseen and out-of-depth pain. 

“Sammy, I’m sorry,” Dean says. 

“I left,” Sam whispers. Tears spill down his cheeks. He doesn’t even try to stop them. His eyes are latched to Dean’s face, begging him to take it away, to make it better. Things used to be so easy. Dean used to have all the answers. “I-I can’t, Dean,” Sam fumbles for an explanation. Dean doesn’t really need him to; he somehow knows what his brother’s going to say. “I can’t – with her, I can’t.” 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean says, because he really doesn’t want to hear it. 

“I keep seeing her on the ceiling,” Sam whispers, horrified, eyes lost. He looks faraway. Dean catches sight of him digging his thumb back into his left palm. “Every night. Burning. Just like Jess. And I can’t – I can’t tell if they’re visions or nightmares. And I can’t –”

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean says. This time he does tug his brother into a hug. He slings his arm over Sam’s shaking shoulders and pulls Sam’s face into his shoulder. “It’s okay. They’re nightmares,” Dean soothes him quietly, ignoring the ice in his stomach, because _what if_ – no. Fucking no. “I promise they’re just nightmares.” 

“I can’t be a – a _father_ ,” Sam bites out the word like it’s poison. “I don’t know how to do that. I’m a fucking mess, Dean.”

“It’s okay, man,” Dean says into Sam’s hair. “Let it out.” Sam stops trying to talk and just cries. Dean eases his hand between Sam’s fingers again, fights Sam’s fingernails away from his flesh before he can break skin, and keeps his hand there, starkly aware that he’s not just hugging his brother but also holding his hand. 

But, whatever. Apparently casual touch is something Dean does now. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’d be nice if they could be the kind of family that doesn’t just hug when the world is ending or one of them is about to die. 

After a while, Sammy hiccups into silence and finally draws away. He rubs his face on his sleeve and looks back at the floor, sniffing loudly and hiding behind his hair. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he says again, voice wrecked. 

“If I was any kind of responsible brother, I’d tell you to go back and make an honest woman of her,” Dean jokes weakly. 

Sam just sniffs again, maybe an attempt to smile. “I don’t want to –” his breath hitches. Dean’s afraid the waterworks are going to start again, but Sam pushes through, “I don’t want to leave her.” 

“You gonna tell her that?” Dean says. 

Sam sucks in a shuddering breath. His shoulders rise and fall with it. “I don’t know how to be a dad.” 

“I’ll get you an instruction manual,” Dean says. And when his latest attempt at humor falls flat, he drops his voice. “Did okay with Jack,” he tells Sam. 

Sam shakes his head miserably. “No, I didn’t. That was Cas.”

“It was a team effort,” Dean says firmly. And he thinks about Ben. He doesn’t know why, but he does. He thinks about Lisa telling him, sitting side-by-side on Bobby’s stairs, _you’re always so amazing with Ben. You know what I wanted? More than anything? Was a guy that Ben could look up to. Like…like a dad._ And he thinks about Ben, that time he called Dean to crash Lisa’s date. _You know you’re walking out on your family, right?_

“I always wanted it,” Sam says. His voice is still too dazed and faraway for Dean to be entirely comfortable with where his mind might be, right now. “With Jess, I – we talked about getting married. About having kids. But that was before – and the person I am now – I can’t, Dean.” 

“You know that’s bullshit, right?” Dean says. “You’re the best man I know. You saved the fucking world. At least a dozen times.” 

Sam keeps shaking his head. “I’ve messed up so much. She deserves better. She deserves someone who can – she told me that she was down in Hell for centuries, Dean. Two years topside, but you know how time is different down there. She was down there for two-hundred years, at least. And she never thought she’d get this chance – at a life. A family. And now I’m screwing it up. She told me she wasn’t going to let anyone stand in the way of that. Not even me.” 

Dean hears _two-hundred years_ , thinks about razors, meat hooks, chains, and screaming. He swallows smoke and blood. 

“Everyone screws this shit up, Sam,” Dean says. 

“I-I can’t,” Sam says desperately, like there’s just something here that Dean isn’t understanding. 

“Sam,” Dean says. “You’re not gonna walk out on your kid.”

Sam looks like Dean slapped him. But now that Dean’s started talking, he can’t stop:

“You’re not just gonna drop them like – like Dad, okay? Just because they’re inconvenient or you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. That’s not an excuse. You’re not gonna do that.”

Sam’s face crumbles. He gulps back another sob, but instead of falling toward Dean, this time he falls backward, lands on his back on the mattress, puts his arm over his eyes, and Dean recognizes it as something he does, too. An instinct to cover his face, to keep the world away, to make people stop looking at him. 

Dean gives him a minute, watching his brother’s stomach heave as he breathes back more tears, fights to keep ahold of his hurt, anger, and fear. Dean knows that Sam’s emotions always run hot, boiling to either tears or rage, and Dean knows he’s lucky Sam’s landed on tears, otherwise his last crack might have earned him a punch in the jaw. 

“But that’s why,” Sam starts. “I can’t be like Dad. I – it’s not fair to drag a kid into this mess.” 

“Sammy,” Dean says. “You’re not gonna be like Dad.” And Dean doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to talk about Dad. 

“There’s always going to be something,” Sam continues. It’s like he’s not even listening to what Dean’s saying. “We can’t get out, Dean. We’ve tried so many fucking times. Something always follows us home. And I can’t – I can’t let them die because of me.” 

“Sam,” Dean says. Sam doesn’t stir, so Dean jogs his arm with his elbow. “Come on, man. Yeah, maybe they won’t always be safe. But that kid – both of its parents are fucking _hunters_ , man. You really think anything’s gonna touch it once Eileen goes all mama bear as soon as something so much as looks at her kid strangely?” 

“Didn’t do us much good,” Sam says. “Didn’t stop Azazel from killing Mom.” 

“Yeah, well, that fucker’s dead, last time I checked,” Dean says. “And Rowena’s not gonna let anything crawl out of the pit to mess with us. And, for that matter, Michael’s got all the feathered dicks reigned in, too.” 

Sam doesn’t answer. Dean can practically hear the gears in the kid’s brain try to work around a loophole in Dean’s logic. Sam’s silent for a long time. Dean just waits for him. 

“I didn’t want it to happen this way,” Sam says softly. “We live in a crummy apartment. I don’t even have a fucking job.” 

And Dean decides not to go into the _well, you see, when a man and woman love each other very much_ , spiel, because it’s not like Dean’s never messed up in that regard. 

A part of him will always remember Emma. Always remember that she had his eyes and mouth. Always remember what she looked like when she pleaded with him to save her before Sam shot her through the chest. But that isn’t something he thinks about. He doesn’t think about the fact that he wasn’t going to kill her. He was just going to let him take him out, because he wasn’t going to kill his daughter. Even if she was a monster. 

“So?” Dean says. “Apply to Walmart or some shit. You’re gonna have to either way. I hear child support’s a real bitch.” 

“I never should have –” Sam stops, takes a breath, starts again, “I never should have stopped. What’s the point? It’s always gonna drag us back in. I should just get back on road. I should have known this wasn’t going to work out.” 

Dean isn’t entirely sure whether or not Sam’s serious – whether or not he might be inviting Dean to come with him. Either way, Dean’s chest twists. It hurts every time he thinks it, let alone tries to say it out loud. 

“You know I can’t, right?” Dean says quietly. Sam peaks at him behind his arm. “Hunting,” Dean clarifies. “You know – the way things are, right now – that’s not something I can go back to. I can barely handle a gun. I can’t drive until I figure out all the fucking drugs.” _I can barely get through a night without freaking out, let alone face down a monster._ “I’m turning into another freaking Martin.” 

“You know that’s not true,” Sam says, and he sits up on his elbows, pulls out one of those furrow-browed, concerned looks that’s half-way guilt. “You’re not…”

“Crazy?” Dean says with a derisive laugh. And, God, he feels fucking crazy. He feels unhinged. Unbalanced. He can’t even recognize himself anymore. Dad would be so fucking disappointed in the way he turned out. 

“No,” Sam says sternly. “You’re not.” 

This isn’t something they really talk about. Cas has been dealing with the day-to-day bullshit. Sam checked out after he and Cas ganged up on Dean in the hospital. Since then, Sam hasn’t acknowledged any of it – the fact that Dean’s barely hanging on, taking three different kinds of pills just so he can function at minimum capacity. 

“It’s, um,” Sam continues, and he looks embarrassed. He looks a little desperate. “It’s fine, you know that, right, Dean? What you’re, ah, going through? Like that’s totally _normal_ ,” and Dean can’t help but snort at the word. “Well, _expected_ , then, for the amount of shit you’ve been through.” 

Except it’s not like Sammy tried to – well, it’s not like Sammy went off the rails. Sammy’s still – part of that thought must show on Dean’s face, because Sam keeps talking: 

“You know you’re not the only one who…” Sam hesitates, he flops back onto the mattress and turns to the ceiling, like he doesn’t want to meet Dean’s eyes. “I’m dealing with shit, too. I’m not exactly the picture of…well, mental health, here. I just showed up at your house after I ran out on my pregnant, ah…Eileen.” 

Dean doesn’t miss how Sam doesn’t call Eileen his girlfriend. And it makes Dean think about Cas. Because it’s not like Cas is Dean’s _boyfriend_. Dean Winchester doesn’t do _boyfriends_. 

“And, ah,” Sam hesitates. “You’re not the only one who – you know.” 

Dean isn’t entirely sure what Sammy’s getting at, and there’s a sinking sensation in his core that warns him that he probably doesn’t want to know. “The only one who…?” Dean prompts. 

Sam’s face is red. “The only one – I, ah, after the apocalypse. The first one. The one I started. And when you and Cas…with the Leviathans. You both disappeared. And I didn’t know –”

“Sammy, you don' t have to –”

“Dean,” Sam cuts him off. 

This is something they don’t talk about: that year Dean was lost in Purgatory and Sam didn't look. It’s not like Dean hasn’t forgiven Sammy. He has. For a long time now. He understands. He does. It’s just not something they put words to.

“It's just that,” Sam breathes deeply before continuing. “I didn’t know where you guys went. I thought you were dead. I had never been so alone before. So, I just thought – why the hell not, you know? There wasn’t anyone around anymore to miss me. And it would just be, you know, easier.”

“Sam,” Dean warns. His stomach pitches. He’s worried that if Sam says one more word, Dean’s going to throw up. His hands are cold. He can’t feel his fingers. 

“But then I met Amelia,” Sam continues, like he didn’t even hear Dean. “And it made things…smaller. Easier to understand. I had, you know, _direction_ again.” 

“Oh,” Dean says. He can’t say anything else for a long time. His throat is dry. “Well then, ah,” Dean clears his throat. He thinks about empty motel rooms, pitching pills into his palm, choking on whiskey. “I’m glad you met her, then.” 

And that sure as hell isn’t anything Dean ever thought would come out of his mouth. But sure. Sure. If Amelia kept Sammy sane. Kept Sammy _alive_. Then Dean can forgive Sammy for almost choosing her instead of Dean. 

Silence falls around them. Dean doesn’t know how long they’ve been talking. Cas and Jack are probably both awake by now, but Dean missed the noises of them getting out of bed. He can hear movement from the kitchen below them. He smothers a stab of panic at the thought of the whiskey under the counter. Wonders if Cas has found it yet – what Cas will think if – 

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Sam says finally. He sounds defeated. Not miserable, anymore. Just tired. 

“You, ah, could try a sorry?” Dean says. And he knows he’s a fucking hypocrite, okay? He knows he’s only said sorry when it’s been physically dragged out of his throat with forceps. But it’s not like he doesn’t know when an apology is appropriate. And he’s pretty sure running out on your pregnant girlfriend fits the bill. 

“What if she doesn’t,” Sammy swallows. His voice is a whisper. “What if –”

Dean shrugs. “Then you send a monthly check and see the kid on weekends. Come on, Sammy,” Dean shoves Sam’s shoulder again. “Trust me. You look so pathetic right now, Eileen won’t be able to resist you.” 

Sam doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the ceiling, eyes bloodshot but finally dry. His hair is tangled around his head. And Dean remembers what he looked like as a child, so small and vulnerable, crying when there wasn’t enough food or when Dad was late or when he woke up in the middle of the night because of a nightmare. Crying for Dean. Needing Dean. So fucking tiny when that shtriga bowed over his bed.

“Can I ask you something?” Sam asks, voice small. 

“Sure,” Dean breathes, not really sure he wants to know what comes next. But they’re already in the sharing and caring mode, so they might as well get it all out of the way now. 

“Did, ah,” Sam clears his throat. His eyes flicker from the ceiling to Dean’s face and then quickly back again. “Did Dad…did he hit you?” 

And Dean thinks about it. He thinks about how he blew up at Dr. Jorgensen for suggesting it, for being angry at Sam for putting the idea in his head. He thinks about how Dad didn’t hit him. Didn’t hit him unless Dean really fucked things up. 

Dean looks at the floor. It’s covered in scratches, worn, and splintered in places. Cas talked about getting a rug. They should probably do that. It’s not like they have the money to afford getting new floors for the place, even if Dean put them in himself. 

“Yeah,” Dean says finally. His voice doesn’t sound like his voice. It’s like someone else is talking from far away. Across a phone line or something. “He did.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. And shit. Because it sounds like the kid’s getting choked up again. But when Dean chances a look, Sammy’s eyes are just red. And he’s still looking at the ceiling. “I thought for a long time that…but I should have asked before. I should have…” 

“You shouldn’t have anything, Sammy,” Dean says fiercely. “You were a kid. And I didn’t want you to know, anyway.” 

“So were you,” Sam says, turning to look at Dean again. His eyes are heavy. “A kid.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

“Every time I think I’ve moved on from what Dad did to us, something else comes up,” Sam says with a weak smile. 

Dean shrugs. “That shit’s long gone by now, Sammy,” he says. Dean spent his childhood idolizing the man. It wasn’t until he was dead that he started hating him. And by then it was too late to ask for an apology. Anyway. what kind of a douchewad stays angry at a guy who literally sold their soul for your life? 

“And, um,” Sammy continues, voice suddenly high. Eyes anywhere but on Dean. “Look,” he begins again. “I know Dad never left us enough money. And I know you went hungry so I wouldn’t have to. And – I get that you hustled and you stole and – but did you ever –”

“Sam,” Dean cuts out so quickly, he doesn’t even hear the tail end of Sam’s question. Sam stops talking. Dean can feel his heartbeat in his ears. 

Dean doesn’t care whether or not Sam knows that Dad used to smack him around a little. That doesn’t matter. But this – this other stuff. Dean doesn’t want Sammy to know about that. And he doesn’t want him to guess about it either. Doesn’t want to talk about it. And he’s worried that refusing to talk about it is probably just as much confirmation as Sam needs. 

Sure enough, Sam’s face falls. Dean sees it out of the corner of his eye. Now Sam’s the one looking at Dean. Dean’s the one looking away. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam breathes. 

“Don’t,” Dean snaps. Fuck. He didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to – He takes a deep breath, forces his heart to calm down. Presses his nails into his palms and concentrates on the pinch of pain. He’s not going to fall apart right now. Not when his baby brother is sprawled on the bed, looking for some kind of reassurance, and there’s a plate of cold, damp scrambled eggs on the bed between them. 

There’s another beat of silence. 

“Does it help?” Sammy says suddenly, voice so quiet it’s almost nonexistent, like he’s begging Dean to say anything to make it better even if it’s a lie. “You know. The meds and stuff. Do they – are things better?”

And Dean doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t know how to say that it’s like he’s living life in a dream now, all dazed and foggy, and he doesn’t know how to tell the doctor that – and he thinks about cheeking the pills every morning because it’s not like he’s never done that before. And that after a few more weeks of this shit, Cas will inevitably get sick of all his bullcrap and dump his ass. Dean doesn’t know how to tell Sam about the bottle of whiskey in the cabinet. 

Dean doesn’t know how to explain that he thinks he’s missing a key piece. 

The problem is, Dean’s pretty sure that these things only work if he wants to get better. And Dean’s spent such a long time feeling like shit that he doesn’t know how to want that.

“They…” Dean hesitates. “I’m sleeping better.” 

“Good,” Sam nods curtly. “That’s good.”

“Come on,” Dean says. He eases himself to his feet, reaches a hand toward Sam. Sam looks at his hand for a minute like he’s not sure what to do with it, but then he grasps hold and Dean tugs him to his feet. Sam winces as his head undoubtedly rejects the change in position. 

“So, here’s what you’re gonna do,” Dean says after Sam’s steady. “First, you’re gonna take a shower. Because you’re freaking ripe, man. Then you’re gonna put on some clean clothes. I’ll toss your jeans in the wash because I’m just that awesome. You’re gonna head over to the florist downtown, get her a bouquet of geraniums or some shit, maybe pick up a box of chocolates, too, and then you’re gonna go back to your apartment, get on your knees, and fucking beg her to take you back. Kiss her feet. Maybe cry a little more. Definitely throw in a couple hundred _I’m sorries_ and _I don’t deserve yous_ and _Dean is the much smarter and better-looking brother_. And then she’s going to forgive your stupid ass and the two – or, ah, three of you are gonna live happily ever after. Capiche?” 

Sammy smiles. He looks a little better. A little calmer. A little less like he’s going to go get drunk and walk another four miles in the pouring rain. “Yeah, okay.” 

Before he can think about it, Dean snags Sam’s wrist and tugs him into a hug. It takes a minute for Sam’s surprise to fade before he slings his arms around Dean’s waist, but once he does, he hangs on too tight. Dean can feel his brother’s chest rise and fall against his. 

“So,” Dean says, after Sammy finally steps away. “I’m gonna be an uncle, huh?” As soon as Dean says it, the idea of _pregnant_ solidifies firmly into the idea of _baby_ , and with it comes a flash of panic so intense that he nearly gags on it. It takes everything he has to keep smiling. 

This is it: the irrefutable proof that it’s over. They can’t go back. And he understands why Sammy ran.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery warning in the endnote

Dean throws Sam’s clothes in the wash while Sam showers. Cas finds him in the laundry room. His eyebrows are wrinkled in concern. 

“Is he feeling better?” Cas asks. 

Dean breathes out slowly, shuts the washing machine and turns around. “He’s, ah, yeah. Can you drive him into town to get his car?” 

“Of course,” Cas says at once. “He’s going back to Eileen, then?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. And he doesn’t know whether or not it’s appropriate for him to tell Cas before Sammy does, but Dean needs to tell someone, needs to because the knowledge is clawing its way out of his throat, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. “Eileen’s pregnant,” he blurts out. 

Cas nods. “She told me. We were texting last night.”

This announcement takes the air out of Dean’s lungs. The idea of Eileen and Cas texting – he doesn’t know why it’s so strange. And he’s struck by the sudden thought that last night might not have been the first time Cas and Eileen were in touch. That maybe they’ve been texting this whole time – stupid, mundane things about living with the Winchester brothers. Like how both Dean and Sam don’t roll their socks before they put them in the drawer, complaining about how they drink directly from the milk carton, comparing notes on other stuff. And it’s so ridiculously _familial_. Dean doesn’t know how he feels about it. 

“I’ll have to congratulate him,” Cas says. He’s smiling. And right. Pregnant means baby. A baby is a good thing. “And you,” Cas adds. “You’re going to be an uncle.” 

“Um…yeah,” Dean says. Maybe it’s something in the way he says it, or something wrong with his face, because the next moment Cas folds Dean into a hug. And there’s no one watching; Sam’s still in the shower and Jack is eating breakfast in the kitchen. So, Dean lets himself mold into it, let’s his head fall against Cas’s shoulder. 

“Congratulations,” Cas says softly. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He’s weirdly choked up about it. “Yeah,” he says again when Cas lets him go. “You know, you’re, ah – I mean you’re as good as Sam’s brother, too,” Dean says awkwardly, maneuvering carefully because these are dangerous waters. And Dean remembers how Jack had called Dean his _stepfather_ the other night, the miniature explosion of fear and joy that had erupted in Dean’s stomach at the sound of the word. “So, you’re basically an uncle, too.” 

Cas smiles again. He looks pleased at the thought, and Dean’s glad he said it. “It’s good,” Cas says. “The idea that our family is expanding.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says again. He doesn’t know what else to say. He thinks about what Mom would have said, if she’d known she was going to be a freaking grandmother. She’d probably say how it made her feel old, and Dean wants to smile about that, he does, but there’s something blocking his throat. 

And he thinks about Dad: _I guess I had hoped eventually you would get yourself a normal life, a peaceful life. A family_. So, Sam, at least, is on track for fulfilling Dad’s wishes. 

And Dean remembers that Eileen’s parents are dead, too. He thinks about how she’d been in Hell for two-hundred years, how she wasn’t going to let anything stand in the way of living her life. 

And Sam’s upstairs, washing off a hangover, and why can’t the two of them just let good things be good things? 

“Are you okay?” Cas asks. He raises a hand, cups Dean’s cheek with his palm, and Dean saw it coming, so he doesn’t flinch. 

“I’m okay,” Dean says. He makes himself smile. “I’m great. It’s just – big news. Kinda hard to digest.” 

Cas nods. “I understand.” He pauses. “You’ll be alright while I’m gone with Sam?”

Dean rolls his eyes, but there’s no venom behind it. “Of course, man. Go save my little brother’s ass. I’ve gotta finish up that Jaguar, anyway.” 

Cas leans forward to peck Dean on the lips again. Dean was expecting it by now. It’s okay, he tells himself. He can get used to it. 

As soon as Sam’s clothes finish in the wash and dry cycle, he and Cas leave. Dean hesitates before he pulls out his phone to text Eileen. It really should be Sam’s responsibility to clean up his own messes, but Dean can’t help but want to give him a nudge in the right direction, seeing as the fool’s liable to put his giant foot in his mouth. _Sam’s headed back your way. Go easy on the idiot?_

It takes a minute for her to reply, and when she does, it’s a cryptic, _we’ll see_. 

Dean bites his lip. He taps out, _I hear congratulations are in order? If you throw my little brother out, can I at least still come by? Every kid’s gotta have a crazy uncle. And Cas is a good babysitter._

_Thank you,_ she types back and nothing else, so Dean figures she’s still mad, but at least she knows Dean’s on her side. That he wants her to do what she needs to do. That he – he wants to see the baby. He wants to be a part of its life. 

Dean has to put away his phone at that point because his hands are shaking again and he’s worried he’s going to drop it. 

It makes him remember that he hasn’t taken his meds yet. And he’s late by at least an hour because Cas had been too preoccupied with Sam to remind him. So, Dean heads into the kitchen to fish out the bottles. 

And then stops. Heart beating too hard. Because it’s not like Cas will know. It’s not like Cas _checks up_ on him. It’s not like Dean will have to lie. It’s not like it should even be any of Cas’s business, anyways – and Dean feels like shit. 

There’s a constant, dull ache in his right temple and he feels clumsy and unsteady on his feet. And he _knows_ – he knows it’s the medication doing it. And it doesn’t even fucking help him. Doesn’t make anything fucking better. And he didn’t even want to take it. He’s only taking it because Sam and Cas forced him to and – and – 

Fuck. 

He’s not stupid. He knows it’s not a good idea to just stop. He, of all people, knows how shit going cold turkey is. But it’s not like – 

Fuck. 

He’s only been taking it for a month. It can’t possibly be that bad. It’s not like he’s never put his body through crap before. And he’s –

He’s got the whiskey. He could – just if things get worse than he thought they would. 

Dean grabs the bottle of Zoloft, taps out two of the 100 mg tablets. He stares at the oblong pills in his palm. It’s not like Cas is fucking counting his pills or something. Cas fucking trusts him. 

He trusts him. And Dean’s stomach hurts. 

His hand shakes. He turns his palm over the sink and drops the pills down the sink. Runs the faucet. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Dean puts the pill bottle back. Fumbles for the miniature paper box of Abilify. Pulls out the sleeve. Peels back the foil on the blister pad and pops out the tablet. Sends it down the drain after the Zoloft. 

And he knows it’s a mistake. As soon as he does it, he knows it’s a fucking mistake. Cas is going to find out. Cas will tell Sam. They’re going to get on Dean’s case about a facility again. 

It’s hard to breathe. Dean’s vision is blurry. Shit. Fuck this. Dean grabs the whiskey bottle from its place in the cabinet. It’s still there, so clearly Cas hasn’t found it. 

Then Dean leaves the kitchen, pulls on his boots from the closet, stomps across the muddy lawn outside to the garage. He throws off the tarp over the Impala. She still looks okay. It’s been a month since he’s driven her. He makes sure to turn over the engine every few days so she doesn’t stall from disuse. 

Cas won’t think to check her trunk, so Dean pops the trunk, opens the combination lock, tugs open the hidden compartment. He stores the whiskey next to their spare ammo, next to the still-sharp machetes. And Dean should probably find a better place to store those, make sure they don’t get rusty. 

Just in case – in case – but it isn’t like Dean’s going to be – not when – 

Dean slams the trunk closed. He tries to lose himself in the Jaguar’s engine again, but he can’t concentrate. 

He thinks about Sam. Sam’s going to be a dad. Going to have an actual baby. Like a real life, human child. So fragile and innocent, and if Sam thinks he can’t handle it, then there’s no way Dean can let himself get close to it – no way he can trust himself not to snap, not to go totally berserk. 

Dean’s wrist brace is clunky and uncomfortable. It’s a morning for fucking bad decisions, so Dean tears apart the Velcro fastenings, unbuckles the strap around his thumb. Tosses the brace into the corner of the garage. 

Dean’s wrist is stiff, still a little sore, but he experimentally flexes it, and it isn’t too bad. It wasn’t a severe fracture. He’ll just have to be careful with it – he’s worked around injuries before. 

Dean hears the rumble of Cas’s truck from a long way down the road before it grinds into view, tires splashing across the wet pavement. Cas pulls into the driveway. Dean schools his features into a passable smile. His heart hammers against his ribs. He can’t let Cas know there’s anything wrong. 

“Hey,” Dean says as soon as Cas swings open the door and steps out, landing with twin squelches in the driveway. 

“I left Sam fairly nervous,” Cas tells Dean. “But I think he’ll be alright.” 

Dean laughs. “They grow up so fast. Suppose I should have done a better job when I gave him the talk.”

“I don’t think this occurred because of an inadequate knowledge of the human reproduction system,” Cas says, but he smiles swiftly to let Dean know he’s joking. 

Dean laughs again. Cas’s eyebrows furrow, so maybe Dean’s overdoing it. His eyes land on Dean’s bare wrist. 

“You took off your brace?” 

“It was getting in the way,” Dean says. 

“You should use the brace for another four weeks, at least,” Cas says unhappily. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s fine, Cas.” 

Cas frowns. “I see it’s going to another of those morning’s then?” 

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Dean didn’t want to argue. Dean can’t fight right now. He needs Cas to think everything’s okay. Dean’s okay. 

“Sorry,” Dean says quickly. 

Cas looks momentarily surprised. And Dean wonders how often he really apologizes. Way too infrequently, he knows, considering how much shit he has to be sorry for. 

“It’s alright,” Cas says. He takes a step forward. “I shouldn’t have snapped, either. You and your brother – the both of you make your own decisions. I should be better at respecting that.” 

Dean doesn’t know what to say, so he strides forward, tugs Cas to his chest, and kisses him hard. Cas kisses him back. Dean pulls back after a minute, smiles. His throat aches. He thinks he might be sick. Cas smiles, as well. 

“I should go inside,” Cas says. “I can make you lunch if you’d like.” 

“Ah, no,” Dean says at once, not sure why he’s suddenly so desperate to make Cas pleased, just knowing he wants – he wants to keep Cas happy. He doesn’t want Cas to suspect anything. “Let me. I’m not getting any work done on the stupid car, anyway. I’ll make burgers.” 

Cas smiles. “Sounds delightful. Thank you, Dean.” 

And Dean couldn’t have felt worse if he’d planned on poisoning the ground beef. 

OOO 

After lunch, Cas and Jack go for a drive. Dean’s not entirely sure where to. He thinks Jack wants to practice driving shift. Dean doesn’t want to go back into the garage, so instead he heads to his bedroom, flops on his back on the mattress and stares at the ceiling. It’s cool and dark with the curtains drawn. 

_Just tell Cas,_ he thinks. Just tell him he skipped the meds that morning. It’s just one day. He can start again tomorrow. Just tell him about the fucking whiskey. Ask him to get rid of it because Dean’s obviously too much of a pussy to take care of it himself. Just fucking tell him things are bad, aren’t getting any better. Just fucking tell him. 

Dean loses track of time. He hears Cas’s truck pull into the driveway again. He can hear through the walls as Jack and Cas climb out of the cab, laughing about something. It’s been a while since Dean heard Jack laugh, Dean realizes. 

It’s been a while since Dean can remember laughing. Laughing without having to drag it up his throat. Laughing without having to think about it. 

Dean swallows. He means to get off the bed, to at least sit up before Cas comes inside, but suddenly Cas is standing in the doorway. 

“Are you alright?” Cas says. Dean rockets upward. He didn’t need to see Cas’s face to notice the concern in his voice, but now that he can see him, he notes Cas’s eyebrows pulled low over his eyes. 

“Fine,” Dean says at once. Cas doesn’t look convinced. “Just a headache.” Which isn’t exactly a lie, because Dean does have a headache. He always has a headache. But that’s not why he’s lying around like a sack of flour and staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Fuck. He could at least be doing something productive – like helping Sammy look for jobs. 

“Would you like me to get you something?” Cas offers. 

“No,” Dean says. And then he holds out his hand, heart thumping in his throat, and says, “Come ‘ere.” 

Cas puts his hand in Dean’s. His hand is warm. Dean’s hand is cold. There’s a tight knot in Dean’s chest, getting tighter. Dean smiles easily past it, fixes Cas’s eyes with his own. 

“I know one or two things that can help a headache,” Dean says. 

And Dean doesn’t initiate sex with Cas, not like he’s always initiated it with other people. The words feel clunky and fake in a way they’ve never felt before. Dean’s supposed to be good at this. 

Cas draws closer, shutting the door with his free handl, but he looks a little cautious. And Dean knows he’s taking the lead from Dean here, ready to pull away at the first sign of discomfort or hesitancy. So, Dean just can’t let that happen. 

Dean brings Cas close enough to kiss. Cas stoops at first, but Dean finds his shoulder with his other hand, pushes downward so Cas kneels. Then Dean works his fingers under the edge of Cas’s jacket. Cas gets the picture and shrugs his jacket onto the floor. 

Then Cas surges upward. Dean lets the momentum carry him backward onto the bed. His pulse beats madly in his throat, but he ignores it. If he ignores it hard enough, maybe he can slip into a place where none of this matter. Where it’s just blank silence. Just movement. He’s done that a couple times before. Before with sex with Lee or sex with some girl he picked up at a bar, when everything was too loud and he was too keyed up from a hunt and his brain just went quiet. Just move. Just do what they like. Dean knows what they like. 

Dean shimmies across the bed and pulls Cas with him. Cas’s keeping most of his weight on his arms, probably because he doesn’t want to overwhelm Dean. And Dean doesn’t want to think about that, so he cups the back of Cas’s neck, slings an arm around Cas’s waist, hooks a leg around his back, and then Dean rolls them so Dean’s on top. 

Cas’s eyes open in surprise, but his face is flushed, and he looks intrigued. A burning sensation starts up in Dean’s core and travels downward. He feels himself getting hard just by looking at Cas, so he clamps his lips back over Cas’s mouth, shoves his tongue between his teeth. 

Maybe he’s moving too quickly; it takes Cas a minute to relax under Dean’s body. When he does, it’s with a groan tugged from the back of his throat, and Dean’s stomach clenches. He crooks one knee between Cas’s legs, pulls it up to his groin so Cas can grind against him. 

Cas does, almost like he can’t help it. Cas moans again, lifts his chin, bares his throat, and Dean wants to pick him apart. Wants to have him come undone under his fingers. Dean leaves Cas’s lips so he can turn his attention to his throat. He kisses the soft flesh under Cas’s chin, once, twice, pulls it into his mouth, sucks hard, Cas gasps. 

Dean busies his hands with trying to find the hem of Cas’s shirt. He rolls it up across his stomach, touches Cas’s warm, firm skin. Cas’s fingers fumble against Dean’s chest. 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice choked on another moan. “Dean, are you sure?” he whispers. 

Dean takes his mouth away from Cas’s throat, tugs Cas’s lower lip into his mouth, whispers into Cas’s hot breath, “Don’t speak. Just let it happen.”

 _Don’t move. Don’t say a word. I won’t hurt you. I’m trying to help you._

Dean shoves the voice away. This is Cas. This is Cas and this is okay. Dean knows what to do. He knows how to make it good. He knows how to make them come quickly. Get their money. Cut out while they’re still zipping up their fly. 

Dean tugs up Cas’s shirt too roughly. His fingers are shaking. He has to move fast so Cas won’t see. Cas must not notice, must mistake Dean’s growing unease for eagerness, because Cas’s hands find Dean’s shirt now, fingers creep under the hem, hands find Dean’s skin. Too many hands. Warm fingers. 

Dean keeps moving. Cas pauses the exploration of Dean’s body to help Dean take off his own shirt, sliding it over his head and leaving his hair mussed and staticky. Then Cas’s hands tug at Dean’s shirt again, and Dean knows he’s supposed to take it off, too, now. And okay. Okay. They’ve been skin to skin before. Or near enough. Certainly seen enough of each other that it doesn’t matter. They’ve been sleeping in the same bed for a month now. Dean can do this. It’s okay. 

He sits up on his heels to shuck his shirt, tosses it somewhere in the dark corner of the room. Doesn’t think. Don’t fucking think. 

Then he bows back over Cas’s body. Their chests meet. All heat. Firm flesh. Okay. Fucking okay. And thank God Dean’s at least hard. His body’s doing what it’s fucking supposed to do even if his brain won’t shut up. 

The guy laughed. Stroked Dean, once, twice, three times, whispered: _maybe I’ll make you come first, sweetheart. I can make you do anything I want._

Dean grits his teeth against the memory. He smells the rancid public bathroom. Sees rust on the pipes coming out of the toilet tank. Dean ruts up against Cas quickly, trying to bury the image with another flare of heat in his groin. Cas arcs up to meet him. Dean can feel him: hard through two pairs of jeans. 

And now’s about the time when Lee would flip Dean back over, start fumbling for the lube in the bedside table. And Dean can feel everything, remember everything, hear everything now that nothing’s dulled by the lazy pulse of whiskey through his brain. And he should have taken one or two slugs – should have – 

But Cas would have smelled it on his breath. 

Cas’s hands are all over Dean’s skin. Warm. Searching. Looking for the perfect place to plunge the razor, scrape it against bone, peel back flesh –

“Dean,” Cas’s eyes are open. Maybe he felt a change in Dean’s breathing. Maybe Dean made a noise he shouldn’t have. “You’re crying,” Cas says. His hands drop. 

No. Fuck. No. Dean shuts his eyes. He can feel the dampness on his cheeks now. The tightness of his throat that precedes a sob. He catches Cas’s lip between his teeth. 

“Dean, stop,” Cas says. 

Don’t think, Dean orders himself. Just move. They like it. Girls like it when he takes control. When he tears off their clothes. Not too rough. Just rough enough to leave bruises. They like the reminder in the morning. They like seeing him ferocious, all bloodlust and desperation. Don’t think. He doesn’t need to think. Just keep moving. 

“Dean, stop,” Cas says again, firmer, and he catches both Dean’s wrists in his hands. Won’t let go. Tugs his face away from Dean’s lips and tongue and teeth. 

_Dean, stop,_ Ann Marie chokes, face red, and Dean’s hand is around her neck. _You know you like it_ , Dean purrs. He puts his mouth right up to her ear, takes her earlobe into his teeth. He stifles the desire to let his eyes flash black. _This is what you’re made for._

_Lee, stop,_ Dean gasps, face in the pillow and he can barely breathe. Lee is behind him, one hand tight enough on Dean’s thigh that he’ll leave fingerprint bruises, the other hand pressing hard against the base of Dean’s back. _I’ll go slow_ , Lee promises. _You know I’d never hurt you._

_Stop_ , Dean tries to whisper as Ms. Davis – fucking Angela – peels down his boxers, nudges his knees aside so she can kneel between his legs. She made him lie on the classroom floor behind her desk, gritty with chalkboard dust. _Don’t move._ She says. _Don’t make a sound._ She grins down at him. _I’m just trying to help_. 

_Stop. Please stop. I’ll do anything_ , Dean stammers through sobs. Alastair is on top of Dean, straddling him with his knees on either side of Dean’s hips. They did away with chains a long time ago. Dean knows by now he’s supposed to stay still. One of Alastair’s hands is inside his body, buried to the wrist in blood and intestines. The other hand is flat against Dean’s cheek. Alastair’s thumb traces the outline of Dean’s lips. _It isn’t really your body, Grasshopper,_ Alastair croons. His breath smells like death. _It belongs to me._

_Dean, stop_. Bella begs. The first soul he ever tortured. Her beautiful face isn’t beautiful anymore, with half the skin torn off her skull. Dean smiles. _Too bad I never took you up on your offer topside_ , Dean says. He runs his knife lengthwise down her torso, clavicle to groin, and she screams and screams and screams. _We could have had a lot of fun_. 

_Stop,_ Dean gulps for air, but Michael twists his fingers in his hair, shoves his face back below the surface. _You said, yes, Dean,_ Michael reminds him, smile in his voice. But I do love to hear you beg. 

And Dean can’t say anything back, because he said yes every time.

“Dean,” says Cas gently. 

Dean is crying. He’s boneless on top of Cas. Chest to chest, and Dean’s shoulders are heaving with quick, muffled sobs. Just trying to breathe. His tears turn Cas’s shoulder warm and slick. Cas’s hands are steady when they land on Dean’s back. 

Slowly, Cas rolls Dean off of him, lays him on his back. Dean can’t stop crying. The tears lodge themselves in his throat. Build up pressure inside his head. He throws an arm over his face. He doesn’t want Cas to see him. 

Cas doesn’t get off the bed, but he disentangles their legs, sits up a little so they’re not touching anymore. Dean is horribly, acutely aware that he’s not wearing a shirt. That he’s half naked and horribly exposed. And he never liked this part. This part where people could see him afterward. 

“Tell me what I can do,” Cas says softly. 

“Get off me,” Dean says roughly, even though they aren’t touching anymore. Cas draws back, shrinks into himself like Dean yelled at him. 

Dean rolls onto his side, sits up, swings his legs off the opposite side of the bed. There’s at least two feet between them. Dean can still feel the heat of Cas’s body against his, the sickening thrum of his erection under his jeans. 

Dean is disgusting. Filthy and ruined. He’s broken. There’s nothing he can ever do to help that. Dean can’t give Cas what he wants. What he needs. 

“Dean,” Cas says. So horribly level-headed, calm, and kind. Dean wants to scream. He roughly cuffs away the tear tracks on his cheeks. He’s shaking. He scans the dark for wherever his t-shirt landed when he threw it. 

“I love you,” Cas says. 

It doesn’t help. Dean doesn’t deserve Cas’s fucking love. It’s too pure. Too good. 

“Shut up,” Dean chokes. Dean spots his t-shirt against the wall. He gets up. His bad knee twinges, and Dean winces, trying to hide the limp. He bends at the waist to pick up his shirt. He tugs it back over his head. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t want to see Cas’s sad, hurt eyes. See him sitting shirtless on the bed. See his bare torso, all his white skin. 

“I love you whether or not you want me to,” Cas says ruthlessly. “That doesn’t get to be your choice.” 

“Well, it’s a shit choice,” Dean replies. He finally turns around. He expects Cas to look hurt, maybe defensive, but Cas just looks worried. “I can’t give you what you want, Cas.”

“Then I won’t ask you for it,” Cas says calmly. “I’ve told you that before. I’m prepared to accept whatever you feel able to give me.” 

“Well then you’re not getting shit,” Dean says. The words feel like acid bubbling up his throat. He needs Cas to stop staring at him. Dean needs to get the hell out. 

“Alright,” Cas says. Still in that damn level tone of voice. Not even fucking blinking. 

“Can you stop being so fucking noble?” Dean demands. 

“I’m sorry if my attitude distresses you,” Cas says. And there – finally, there. A hint of coolness. Of fighting back. “I don’t mean it to.” 

“Your attitude doesn’t fucking distress me,” Dean snaps. “You fucking distress me. You ever thought of that, huh? You ever think that maybe you’re the problem here? That maybe there’s something wrong with you?” 

Dean wishes he hadn’t said it. But he did. And now it’s out there. Poisonous and acrid. And Cas doesn’t look cold, anymore; he looks hurt. And confused. Like when Dean had the Mark of Cain and Cas refused to lift a hand to stop him from beating the every-living shit out of him. 

And Dean is a fucking monster. He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him. 

_What the hell is wrong with you?_ Dad takes him by the shoulders on the curb outside of that New York City club. 

“I never said there was anything wrong with you, Dean,” Cas says quietly. Because the bastard is _still_ trying to comfort Dean. 

“Fuck off,” Dean says. And shit. Because his eyes are burning. The heat is building inside his skull until he’s sure his head is going to pop. “Just don’t fucking –” _touch me. Speak to me. Look at me._

Dean’s out of the room and half-way down the stairs before he registers he’s in motion. It was so dark in the bedroom that Dean forgot it was still midday. The light spilling into the hallway through the windows is a shock. 

He is terrified that Cas is going to come running after him. But Dean listens hard as he comes to a stop at the base of the stairs, shoves his feet back into his boots. He doesn’t hear Cas’s footsteps in the hall. Doesn’t hear Cas’s voice. 

Cas doesn’t call him back. Doesn’t come after him. And good. Good. Because it’s not like Dean fucking deserves it, and it’s about time Cas learned his lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During foreplay between Cas and Dean, Dean flashes back to several non-consensual encounters he's had in the past, as well as violence he's enacted on others while he was a demon and in Hell.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean sleeps in the guest room that night. _Sleep_ is a generous word. He spends eight hours tossing and turning in bed, alternatively breathing through bouts of unexpected panic, staring listlessly at the ceiling, and staring at his phone, mindlessly thumbing through YouTube and classic car forums. 

Or he listens to the sounds of Jack and Cas moving around the house. Like he doesn’t even exist. 

He wakes up the morning after at six o’clock, head muzzy from lack of food and real rest. 

He gets out of bed, showers, and makes his way downstairs. The door to – Dean doesn’t know if it’s still his bedroom – is closed, so Cas is probably still asleep. Or pretending to be asleep. 

Dean’s running on fumes, and he knows he’s being stupid. By now it feels like he’s being deliberately, spitefully stupid, especially when the first thing he does when he gets into the kitchen is empty the rest of his pills down the drain. 

He doesn’t have long enough for the regret to settle in before Jack stumbles down the stairs, yawning and hair mussed. The kid needs a haircut. He reminds Dean so forcefully of Sammy it hurts, and Dean looks away. 

Dean’s hands are shaking too hard to work the coffeemaker, so he stuffs his fists in the pockets of his sweatpants and nods to Jack. 

“Morning,” says Dean. 

“’sit morning?” Jack asks blearily. 

Jack shuffles to the cabinet for a box of cereal. He upends half of it into a bowl. Then he travels to fridge for milk. 

Dean keeps his eyes on the kid until Jack takes his cereal to the table, props his phone up against the salt and pepper shakers, and starts blinking dully at some sort of video. The kid’s brain is going to turn to mush soon if Dean and Cas don’t figure out something to keep him occupied. 

But thinking about Cas makes the hard ache in the center of Dean’s chest hurt worse. It’s an emptiness, a cloying hunger, and Dean doesn’t know how to fill it. 

Maybe Cas would forgive him if Dean went upstairs now, crept into the bedroom, crawled into bed. He could kiss Cas’s neck. Dean could do that. Cas likes that. Dean’s not so preoccupied with his own shit that he hasn’t realized by now that Cas likes cuddling in the morning, likes soft kisses on his jaw, girlie stuff like nuzzling his nose into Cas’s messy hair. 

Shit. 

It’s not like Dean’s never had arguments with…with whatever Cas and he are. _Significant others_ or whatever. Dean and Cassie argued all the fucking time. But making up usually involved a lot of angry sex – which is something Cas will definitely not go for now. And he and Lisa argued…but Dean doesn’t remember making up so much as just falling apart back then. Just crumbling and having her catch him. Fuck. She’s better off without him. Cas is better off without him. 

So, Dean doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to say _sorry_ with no caveats. Just _sorry. I hurt you. I’m sorry. I’ll try not to do it again. Please don’t_ – 

_Don’t leave._ Dean’s chest twists so hard, it’s like a cramp between his ribs. For a horrible moment, he thinks he’s going to be sick. Right in the middle of the kitchen floor. And Jack’s going to be totally freaked out –

“Good morning,” Cas says, half-way down the stairs. His face is neutral. Dean can’t look at him. Dean turns to the cabinet behind him. Pulls out a glass. It clatters against the counter because of the tremor in his fingers. 

“Morning,” Jack calls through a mouthful of cereal. 

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas says coolly to Dean’s back. 

And what the fuck? What the actual fuck? Is Dean really supposed to say something right now? What the fuck is he supposed to do? And he can’t even fucking think because his head hurts and his heart is beating so fucking loudly and – fuck. He’s filling up his glass under the tap and his hands are wet because the cup is overfilling and it’s too bright too loud fuck what if the pills clog the drain what if Jack saw him toss them what if Jack tells Cas –

“I suppose you think we’re just not going to talk about it,” Cas says.

“Fuck off, Cas,” Dean says. He drops the glass in the sink. He shuts off the faucet. He turns around to face Cas – Cas in a gray t-shirt, neck stretched out and worn so Dean can see his clavicle, and he’s wearing sweatpants, droopy in the knees and – Dean can’t do this. Dean can’t do fucking _domestic_. He can’t do normal. He can’t do boyfriends or partners or fucking SOs. “It’s too early for your shit.” 

“I’m going to ignore that,” Cas says, nostrils flaring, voice clipped in a way that tells Dean exactly how hard he’s working to keep himself from yelling, “Because I understand that you’re upset about what happened yesterday, so you’re channeling your emotional turmoil into anger.”

Dean scoffs. “That so, Cas? You tryna be some kinda shrink? That something you Googled, huh? Am I just another strange human artifact you’re trying to fucking understand?” 

“I wish you would stop putting words in my mouth,” Cas snaps. “They’re vicious, unfair, and untrue.” 

“Just because you’re too much of a coward to say them to my face,” Dean retorts. 

“I’m not the one who’s a coward, here,” Cas says, voice a growl. Dean feels the knife slip cleanly below his ribcage. 

“I, ah, think I should go,” Jack says, standing from the dining room.

“Don’t worry, Jacky,” Dean says. “Just because Mommy and Daddy are fighting doesn’t mean we don’t love you anymore.” 

Jack’s eyes widen in shock and hurt. Regret unfurls in Dean’s gut, and it’s like a physical thing. Like an actually animal writhing inside his stomach. 

“Don’t you dare drag Jack into this,” Cas says fiercely, pointing a finger at Dean’s chest, and Cas says it in exactly the same tone of voice Lisa used when she said _you shoved my kid, Dean_. 

“You know what?” Dean says. “Fucking fine.” Then he pushes off the counter, dodges Cas and heads toward the living room, toward the front door, toward – out. Dean needs to get out. 

“Where are you going?” Cas demands. 

“For a fucking drive.” 

“You're not supposed to drive.” 

“You wanna stop me?” Dean turns on his heel, spreads his arms at his sides. And he is shaking, but he thinks he could land a couple punches if he tried. He’s been doing it for long enough. “Fucking stop me.” 

And they aren’t supposed to do this anymore. Dean doesn’t hit Sam anymore. He’s not supposed to hit Cas. _Can you tell me about some of the other times he hit you?_ Dr. Jorgensen asked. So, Dean’s not supposed to hit people anymore just because he’s angry or – or – can’t – 

Dean doesn’t want to be Dad. Even though he thinks, by now, it’s too late. 

Cas frowns. He doesn’t say anything. Just frowns. Looks hurt and cold and disappointed all rolled into one. Because Dean’s obviously let him down. Dean is such a fucking failure and he lets everyone down. 

Dean tears himself away. He grabs his jacket from the hallway closet. The keys are in the pocket. He slams open the front door, doesn’t let himself think about how hard he’s shaking, how much he wants to be sick, as he marches to the garage, hauls open the rolling door, tosses aside the tarps covering the Impala. The door creaks, just like it always does, and the sound should give Dean comfort but Dean’s struck by the sudden, irrational urge to yank the door off the hinges. 

Instead, he shuts the door too hard. Shoves the keys into the ignition. Yanks the lever into drive. Floors the gas, and then he’s gone. Mud sputtering under the tires. 

He drives. He blinks and doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t really know how much time has passed. He keeps driving. 

Fuck fuck fuck. What is he doing? Where the fuck is he going? 

What happened? 

For a horrible moment Dean doesn’t remember what happened, why he’s in the car, why there’s a steady thrum of panic through his blood. Where’s Sam? Where the fuck is Sam? What happened to Sam? 

But then the memory of the argument slams back into Dean’s head, expanding inside his skull until it’s all he can think about. 

He blinks again. He’s headed straight toward a fucking tree. He swerves, tires grinding against the gravel on the side of the road. A car blares it’s horn behind Dean. Pulls out, speeds ahead; they probably think Dean’s drunk. 

The tremor in Dean’s hands has moved up his arms, into his chest, through his entire body so it feels a little like electrocution. Fire pumping through his veins. Juddering on the cold, wet cement, waiting to die. 

Dean suddenly recognizes the turnoff for the access road to the bunker. The path to the bunker is so familiar, it’s become reflex, so Dean tugs the car down the road. The engine hums under his foot. The entire car is vibrating. 

The vibrating doesn’t stop. Keeps up in his head even as Dean shoves the Impala into park on the frontage road in front of the bunker. 

Dean blinks. He’s out of the car. How the fuck did he get out of the car? And it’s happening again. Fucking again. The blinking in and out of awareness thing. The moving through the world like swimming through muddy water. The chattering in the back of his head. Just like it got bad before he landed his ass in the hospital. 

Dean doesn’t want to go back to the hospital. 

Dean stumbles through the door to the bunker. It’s been two weeks, maybe, since he’s last been there. He’s been away for longer so many times before. But it feels different. Feels wrong. It doesn’t feel like home anymore. 

Dean trips on the last step down to the war room. His legs are strangely numb. It feels a little like he’s floating, and he pauses for a second to take a swig from the bottle of whiskey in his hand and – 

Oh. 

When did that happen? 

Dean doesn’t remember opening the trunk. Doesn’t remember taking out the half-empty bottle. Doesn’t remember drinking. But his mouth tastes like whiskey and his throat burns. And he takes another swallow. 

It helps. The fire in his throat settles in his chest and gives him something to focus on. Tingles through his body. Makes him feel alive. His head stops spinning. Thoughts stop spiraling out of control. Centered. He feels centered. Cold and hard. 

There’s a gaping hole in the library from the table he and Cas brought to the farmhouse. There are neat stacks of books on another table, empty shelves because Sam’s been coming over every other day to finish his digital catalogue. 

There are so many memories in this place. Yelling at Cas from across the map table. Watching Cas leave. Coming out of the infirmary, head achingly empty after months of Michael pounding on the door to find pools of blood and tangled bodies: Maggie and Jules and Ryan. And Rowena staggering above them, horror on her face. And that was on Dean – on Dean because Dean should have kept Michael at bay. Should have kept him locked up. 

There are so many memories. Shooting that Styne kid in the forehead, the one who begged Dean for his life. The smell of gasoline. Beating the shit out of Cas. The satisfaction that thrummed through Dean’s body as every hit landed. And Cas didn’t lift a hand to fight back. 

Chasing Sammy through the halls with a Goddamn hammer. 

Mom. Mom and Sam and Dean sitting at the table – and Dad. Sitting at the table having dinner. Laughing. Crying. Smashing the Goddamn pearl. And Dean couldn’t give it to her – couldn’t give Mom even that one good thing. 

And Kevin. Watching Kevin’s skull burn out. Dean sat on the floor for hours, cradling Kevin’s body, the burnt-out husk left behind, until Cas came in to find him. 

Watching _Game of Thrones_ with Charlie. Dean could never bring himself to finish the series. Can’t watch _Harry Potter_ or _Lord of the Rings_. Dragons and fairytales and adventures belonged to Charlie. Dean can’t stomach them any longer. And Dean thinks that Sam’s still friends with _other_ Charlie – texts her from time to time; she’s living in Michigan somewhere, maybe. Shacked up with some chick by the Great Lakes. But Dean couldn’t stomach her, either. Could barely look her in the eye. Could barely talk to her. 

Because she wasn’t really Charlie. Not _his_ Charlie. Didn’t have her easy laughter, fiery courage, headstrong, stubborn, defiant beauty and, God, Dean misses her. Dean misses her so badly it is a palpable pain in his chest. Someone twisting a blade. Filling his lungs with blood. 

And she deserved so much better. So much more then to die alone and scared in a bathtub, screaming as the blade flashed again and again. And what did she think about as she lay there choking on her own warm blood? Did she think about them: how Dean and Sam had dragged her into this? How they had doomed her from the first moment they fucking saw her? 

Dean’s face is wet. It doesn’t feel like he’s crying, but he must be. Maybe it’s just sweat. He’s sweating. He feels in run down his sides and trickle down his back. He tries to take another drink of whiskey. The bottle’s empty. Dean throws it against a wall. It shatters against the cold brick. 

The memories don’t stop. There’s Crowley in the dungeon. Lucifer in Cas’s body. Sitting across the table from Sam, laptop open, looking for a hunt. Donatello losing his mind over the Demon Tablet. Adam emerging from Michael, turning back to look Dean in the eye. _Since when do we get what we deserve?_

Jack levitating pencils. Jack stealing cereal in the middle of the night. Jack erupting into gold sparks and waves of energy when he thought Sam and Dean didn’t care about him. The damn Ma’lak box in the storage room. 

Dean’s shoulder drags against the wall. He rounds the corner of the hallway. And there’s his room – not his room. Whatever. It feels empty and alien now, with the mattress gone and the pictures removed from the night table, walls blank. 

Dean could move back in. If Cas doesn’t want him back, Dean can move back in. 

And Sammy – Sammy’s not gonna want to come back. Not when he’s just patched things up with Eileen. Not when he’s got his own family to worry about now. And what a pair they are: the Winchester brothers, tag-teaming crises. 

But Dean could move back in. He’s been alone before. He could do it again. It’d be easier – wouldn’t have to worry about anyone else. Wouldn’t have to worry about Sam or Jack or Cas. Wouldn’t have to care. 

Dean falls against the wall behind him. Shuts his eyes. His heart is racing in his ears. 

Okay. Okay. He’s okay. There’s nothing there. He’s not running from anything. There’s nothing stalking him from the shadows. He’s not being watched. Even though there’s a tickle in the back of his skull that tells him he’s being fucking watched. 

Dean wants another drink. Shit. One month. One month and he caved. And now that he’s started, he might as well keep going. It’s not like there’s a cap on how much you can disappoint people in one day.

Hell, he might as well get trashed in a bar. Hook up with some pretty girl half his age. Fuck. Might as well go the whole nine yards. Pick up some dude. Sucking cock’s always been a helluva lot easier when Dean was too stoned to remember the taste in the morning. Wad of cash stuck in the belt of his jeans. 

He could probably even get someone to pay for it. Just for the hell of it. Whore himself out because that’s the only way he’s ever been able to get through it sober. Because it was too dangerous to pull johns into truck stops, gas stations, bar bathrooms, or back alleys with anything less than his full wits about him. 

It was his fault. 

He was quite literally asking for it. Fucking selling it. 

_I own you_ the guy said, bowed over Dean’s body, and his dick rutted against Dean’s back thigh, and he was right: he owned Dean. And Dean stomped his foot into the guy’s face and stole his wallet. Hid in the motel room for a week because he was so scared the cops would show up and drag him off to prison. And then who would buy Sammy food, textbooks, clothes, stupid ass soccer cleats and shin guards? 

But that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was getting back on his knees afterward. Time and time and time again. So many times he lost count. 

Knowing without a shadow of a doubt that any of these guys could overpower him in a second. Slam his face against a brick wall. Turn him into putty in their hands. And Dean couldn’t do a Goddamn thing to stop them. Just had to let it happen. 

So, yeah. Dean wants a fucking drink. Anything to dull these fucking memories. The feelings and smells and sounds that come back to him every time Cas – _Cas,_ who would never hurt him; Dean _knows_ Cas would never hurt him – every fucking time Cas touches him. 

Dean’s back behind the wheel in the Impala. He turns her around, and heads back up the access road toward the highway. There will be somewhere he can stop, some roadhouse or motel to pull over in. Or maybe he can just drive for a little while. It feels good to be back behind her wheel. It’s been too damn long. 

“You can’t run, Dean,” says Alastair from the passenger seat. Dean smells sulfur. It clogs the air, gets stuffed down his throat like a gag. “Not from me.” 

The car loses traction on the slick pavement. Dean overcorrects. The back wheels skid. Metal screaming. 

_A semi careens out of the darkness_. 

Branches clatter against the windows. The front bumper slams into a trunk of a tree. And the 1967 Chevy Impala doesn’t have airbags. So, Dean whips forward. Chest slams into the steering wheel. Neck snaps forward and his head cracks against the windshield, leaves a smear of blood behind. The motor sputters and smokes. Dean falls backward, slumps against the door. 

And then there’s darkness. 

OOO

 _No no no no no no_ , Dean thinks furiously and blinks back tears and blood caught in his eyelashes. “No, Baby, no,” he moans, and fumbles with the key in the ignition, trying to turn the engine over, but it just chokes. Coughs. Dies. 

And Dean needs to get out. He needs to get out now. Make sure she’s okay. 

“Baby, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he mutters. He grips the steering wheel hard, doubles over to put his forehead against the dash, chokes on a gasp of pain when he rubs the cut on his forehead. 

The pain and panic clear his head. He sees blood on the windshield. Spiderweb cracks. A spasm of pain travels through his chest and his heart throbs. Fuck. He grits his teeth. Shuts his eyes. 

Fuck. 

What the fuck has he done? How the fuck is he supposed to fix this? 

Dean grabs for the door, but his arm is clumsy. Fingers don’t work. His chest constricts with pain again, and Dean groans. Leans against the seat. No. No. Fuck no. The tears come before he can stop them. 

He can’t call Cas. He can’t tell Cas that he fell off the wagon. Drove his car into a tree. Can’t tell Cas that he hasn’t taken his meds in two days. Can’t tell Cas – not when Cas is already so disappointed. 

And he can’t call Sammy. Not when Sammy just stumbled across the threshold, sobbing about Eileen and the baby. Not when Dean just patched up his little brother and sent him on his way. 

And Dean doesn’t have anyone else he can call. He can’t call Jody; can’t bother her with this. Can’t call – can’t – 

Dean doesn’t know what to do. 

And then there’s a momentary, crystalline thought: it would be so easy. So fucking easy to make it all go away. 

He could do it for good this time. Actually do something right for once in his life. 

There’s still a shotgun in the trunk. 

And Sam would be okay. He’s got Eileen. He’ll have the baby. 

And Jack would be fine. 

And – Cas – 

Cas – 

Dean doesn’t want to hurt Cas. Not like this. Not when he’s already hurt him so many fucking times. Just once – just for once Dean wants something to work out for them. He wants them to be okay. He just wants his family to be okay. 

And he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be just some drunk, washed up hunter. He doesn’t want to be scared of everything for the rest of his life. He never used to be scared of anything. He’s so fucking sick of being scared. 

He wants to be able to see Sam become a father. He wants to see Sam’s kid grow up. Maybe he’ll have more than one. He wants to be the fun uncle and teach the kids about proper music. 

He wants to be able to have sex with his boyfriend without freaking out. He wants to be able to actually say _boyfriend_ out loud. He doesn’t want to go around for the rest of his life just waiting to die. 

He wants to be able to tell Cas that he – 

Because he _does_. 

“Sammy?” Dean whispers into his cellphone. And thank – there isn’t a God anymore to thank – but Sammy picks up on the second ring. And Dean’s glad, because otherwise…

Dean’s not sure he would have kept waiting. 

“Dean?” Sam says. “You okay?” 

“Sammy?” And Sam probably knows something’s wrong. That’s Sammy’s _something’s wrong_ voice. Dean doesn’t know how to tell him what happened. Ridiculously, childishly, he doesn’t want Sam to be mad at him. “I crashed the car.”

“What? Shit. Dean, are you hurt?” Sam says. Something like relief spreads inside Dean’s chest. Because Sam doesn’t waste time asking why the hell Dean was driving in the first place, doesn’t waste time telling Dean he messed up. 

Something like relief, except it hurts. It hurts so bad Dean sobs. It tugs itself free of his aching chest, sends pain down both arms. 

“I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“Dean?” Sam says again, and now he sounds urgent. Scared. “Where’s Cas? Is Cas with you?”

“I fucked up,” Dean says. 

“Where are you?” Sam demands. 

“B-bunker,” Dean stammers. 

“Shit, Dean,” Sam says. “I’m more than an hour out from there – Eileen and I – fuck. Never mind. I’m going to text Cas. He’ll come get you.” 

“Sammy –” and he needs his brother to understand. He needs Sammy to get it because Dean is so fucking scared. So fucking afraid. He doesn’t want it to get bad again. He doesn’t want to go to the hospital again. To get so stuck inside his head he can barely breathe. Buried so far Sammy had to spoon-feed him chocolate ice cream. “This is real, right?”

“Are you seeing anything right now, Dean?” Sam says. Voice tight with concern. “Tell me what you’re seeing.” 

“He –” Dean takes a deep breath. “Alastair is dead, right?”

“Yes,” Sam says at once. “He’s dead. I killed him. I promise, Dean.”

“And Chuck didn’t bring him back?” Dean sounds weak and frightened in his own ears. But he can’t help it. He doesn’t want to be back in Hell. “Like he brought back Lilith?”

“No,” Sam continues firmly. “I promise he’s dead. Listen, man, are you hurt? Did you get hurt in the crash?” 

“I don’t know,” Dean whispers. Because his head hurts, and it’s bleeding, and his chest hurts. But he doesn’t know if he’s _hurt_. He doesn’t think so. 

“Listen to me,” Sam continues. “Cas is on his way. I texted him. He’ll be there in ten minutes. But I need you to stay on the phone with me, okay?” 

“No, Sammy,” Dean whimpers. “Don’t tell him. Please. I don’t want him to know. I fucked up, Sammy. I fucked it all up.”

“Cas doesn’t care,” Sam says. “He just wants you to be okay. You’ll figure it out, I promise. You’ll always figure it out. But I need you to keep talking, okay? Dean?”

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean breathes. It doesn’t hurt his head as much if he keeps his eyes closed. “Sammy?”

“I’m here.”

“I – I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be fucking sorry, Dean,” Sam says urgently. “Don’t you do that to us. Not now.”

“N-no,” Dean says unsteadily. “I’m – I just fucked up, Sam. And I – I don’t want to go to a clinic. P-please don’t make me go. And I’m sorry. I know I promised. I just fucked up.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says. And he sounds a little desperate. Sounds like maybe he’s crying. “We just want you to be okay.” 

“I’m not okay, Sam,” Dean says. His eyes burn. He wants to be. God, but he wants to be okay. “I lasted a month. A fucking month, Sam, before I downed half a fifth.” 

Dean listens to Sam suck in a breath of air. Waits for him to start yelling. “Dean,” Sam says softly. “I get it, okay? You remember I was addicted to fucking demon blood, right? I get it. Believe me. And it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” 

“I treated you like shit back then,” Dean says. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam insists. “I promise it’s okay.” 

“I – I don’t think I want to die,” Dean wants to say more. He wants to tell Sam that he’s afraid. So, fucking afraid because there’s a shotgun in the trunk or a Goddamned machete. But he can’t say anything else because he’s crying. 

“Good,” Sam says. “That’s good. You deserve to be alive, okay? I know for whatever reason you don’t believe it, but you deserve to be happy. We both deserve to be happy.” 

Dean keeps crying. The kind of crying that isn’t sobbing, but it’s just too much pouring out of him. Just endless tears and trembling body and aching chest. 

“Everyone else, Sam. Everyone else who died. K-Kevin. _Charlie_ –”

“They deserved to live, too, Dean. They deserved to be happy. But that doesn’t mean you _don’t_.” 

Dean can’t talk. He can’t even breathe. 

“Dean?” Sammy says. “Dean, talk to me, man.”

A truck pulls up on the road. Footsteps on the gravel. Cas gently eases the phone from Dean’s weak grip and talks into it, “I’m here now, Sam. I have him. I’ll call you later.” Then he hangs up. 

“Dean,” Cas says calmly. He puts a warm hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding,” he says.

“I’m s-sorry,” Dean says into the palms of his hands. His tears are hot and sticky. It feels a little like poison eking out of his body. 

“Shhh,” Cas says. He gently nudges Dean’s hip, moves him across the bench so Cas can climb in and sit down. “Shhh, Dean. I have you. You’re alright.” He pulls Dean into his arms. Cas is so warm. So close. So comforting. Dean forgets to be afraid – forgets about arguing – and falls against Cas’s chest, just lets him hold him. 

“Are you hurt?” Cas says into Dean’s hair. Breath warm. Soft. Rumbling up his chest. Dean can hear his heartbeat. 

“I s-stopped taking the meds,” Dean confesses, because it’s easier to say when Cas isn’t looking at his face. And Dean wants him to know. Dean is so sick of hiding things. So sick of lying about fucking everything. 

“I know,” Cas says. “And I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas says, regret heavy in his voice. “I should have checked on you. I should have known you were hurting.” 

“I – I dumped them down the drain,” Dean gulps. 

“I know,” Cas says again. “I looked for them after you left. You haven’t been acting like yourself. I’m sorry.” 

“D-don’t,” Dean stammers. “I fucked up. Don’t apologize.”

“I love you,” Cas says instead. 

“I – I drank again,” Dean says. He wants Cas to hate him. He wants Cas to – 

He remembers how Charlie forgave him after Dean beat her up. Broke her arm. Forgave him even though Dean told her not to. 

Cas shifts, takes away his arm from Dean’s back. He places a hand on either side of Dean’s head, draws him gently upward, palms soft on Dean’s cheeks. He meets Dean’s eyes, doesn’t let him turn away. 

“I _love_ you, Dean,” Cas says. He bends forward, places a gentle kiss to Dean’s lips. 

A sob rises in Dean’s throat. Comes out in a gasp. 

“Here.” Cas takes a hand away from Dean’s face to rummage in the pocket of his jacket. Comes back up with a little orange prescription bottle. “Take one, alright?” Cas prompts, tapping out a valium into his palm. “It’s going to help you calm down.” 

And Dean knows Cas is right. For once, he craves the sweeping relief, even if he knows it will come with fog and deadly, dangerous grogginess. Anything to stop his heart from sputtering against his ribs. Anything to quiet his head. 

Dean tries to pluck the pill out of Cas’s hand, but his fingers tremble too hard.

“C-Cas,” he pleads. 

“Shh,” Cas says again. He nudges the pill between Dean’s lips. Out of another pocket in his cavernous coat, he pulls out a water bottle. Dean chokes back the pill. Then Cas puts the mouth of the bottle to Dean’s lips, tips it. Dean swallows. Takes a slow, shuddering breath. 

He lets Cas manhandle him against the seatback. Closes his eyes again and focuses on breathing from his belly like Dr. Jorgensen said. 

“D-don’t make me go to the hospital,” Dean whispers. 

“Let me see how badly you’re hurt, alright?” Cas says. Cas rummages for a minute and comes back up with a fistful of the brown paper napkins Dean always keeps in the door from multiple takeout places. He dabs carefully at the split skin on Dean’s forehead, wipes away the blood and tears on his cheeks. Dean winces as Cas puts pressure on the cut. 

“It isn’t deep,” Cas says. “Can you hold it for me?” 

Dean raises a trembling arm with difficulty. Cas catches Dean’s hand in his own, guides it to his forehead, presses it gently against the wad of napkin. 

“Just like that,” Cas murmurs. Then he drops another kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. “I’m going to check your chest, alright?” 

Cas’s hands fall on the hem of Dean’s shirt. Dean tries not to, but he feels his body tense at the touch. _Just Cas_ , he tells himself firmly. _It’s just Cas_. It’s okay. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, Dean,” Cas promises as he carefully rolls up Dean’s shirt, revealing his chest. Then Cas’s warm, narrow fingers land on Dean’s skin, gently search Dean’s ribs for swelling or movement. 

Dean sucks in a sharp breath of air when Cas’s fingers ghost across the spot the steering wheel hit, just below his sternum, and Cas spends more time on the spot, pressing deeper, _tsk_ ing under his breath, but he finally tugs his hands away. 

“Nothing’s broken,” Cas says. “Just bruised. Do you feel able to get out of the car?” 

“I-I don’t wanna leave her,” Dean says. And, Goddammit, starts crying again. It’s like every time he bit back tears as a kid has swelled up inside him and spilled over. He feels so fucking broken. So wrong. And he can tell the valium is working, because his heart has slowed down, and there’s a lazy, whirling feeling to the world. But he can’t stop crying. 

“We’ll come back for her, Dean,” Cas says, gripping Dean’s upper arm. “I promise. And you’ll be able to fix her. You’ve done it before. It’s going to be alright.” 

Dean sucks in a trembling gulp of air. He looks as Cas’s eyes, bright blue, so damn earnest, and Dean nods. Cas gives him a watery, encouraging smile, then pulls slightly on his arm, prompting Dean to follow him out of the car. 

The change in position makes a bolt of pain rocket through his chest, and Dean gasps, takes a minute to catch his breath again. Cas waits patiently before he pulls him forward once again. Together, they walk gingerly to Cas’s truck. Cas helps Dean climb into the cab. Then Cas shuts the door for him. Leaves to go around the front and climb into the driver’s seat. 

“I don’t want it to be like this anymore, Cas,” Dean mumbles. “I – I don’t want _me_ to be like this.” 

“We’ll work it out, Dean,” Cas says. His hand falls on Dean’s knee. Squeezes softly. He flashes Dean another smile before he pulls the truck into gear, makes a U-turn, and heads back toward home. 

Dean centers himself on the feeling of Cas’s hand on his knee. The soft, solid touch of his fingers. _You gotta make it stone number one and build on it_ , Dean remembers he told Sammy, all those years ago. 

The pain settles deep into Dean’s skull, and every breath throbs through his chest. But, for once, no strings attached, he lets himself get swallowed up by the comforting hum of Cas’s voice, and actually believes that maybe, this time, they will. 

“Cas?”

“Dean?” Cas says steadily. 

“I – I love you, okay?” Dean lip wobbles. “I – I’m sorry I couldn’t say it before. But it’s true.” 

“I know, Dean,” Cas turns his head away from the road for long enough to give him a smile. Calm and warm. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it turns out I am so, so bad at writing fluffy endings. It always feels like I reach this huge crescendo and then the story just feels over. “carry on” was about forcing Dean to get help; “surely heaven waits” needed to be about Dean choosing to get help. Because real recovery starts when you decide you want to recover. So, even if this might not be a strictly happily-ever-after ending, I wanted it to be about hope. 
> 
> Anyway, as of now, I don’t have another chaptered sequel planned, but I do have another fic for this ‘verse: “winds of fortune,” which will contain a collection of one-shot scenes, codas, or timestamps that didn’t make it into the first two volumes. I’ve got the first scene – a short, simple bonding moment between Cas and Jack – that I’ll post some time this next week. After that, posting will be sporadic. But I hope you’ll stick around for it; I promise they will be a *wee* bit fluffier and domestic.
> 
> Also, if you wanna repost on tumblr, you can find it here: [surely heaven waits](https://foolondahill17.tumblr.com/post/619477463456710656/surely-heaven-waits-by-foolondahill17-its-four)


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